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CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY n 

PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 49 

THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 127 

ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 161 

INTERIOR 207 

THE  INTRUDER 231 


1222344 


A  MIRACLE   OF  SAINT  ANTONY.        A 
SATIRIC  LEGEND  IN  TWO  SCENES 


CHARACTERS 

BLESSED  SAINT  ANTONY 

GUSTAVUS 

ACHILLES 

THE  DOCTOR 

THE  PASTOR 

JOSEPH 

A  SERGEANT  OF  POLICE 

THE  MAIDEN  LADY  HORTENSIA 

VIRGINIA 

VALENTINE 

AN  OLD  LADY 

A  GUEST 

ANOTHER  GUEST 

ANOTHER  GUEST 

ANOTHER  GUEST 

The  action  passes  at  the  present  day  in  a  small 
provincial  town  in  the  Low  Countries. 


A   MIRACLE  OF  SAINT 
ANTONY 


FIRST  SCENE 

[The  entrance-hall  of  an  old  and  spacious  middle- 
class  homestead  in  a  small  town  in  the  provinces. 
On  the  left  the  front  door,  giving  onto 
the  street.  In  the  rear  a  small  flight 
of  steps  leading  up  to  a  glass  door, 
through  which  one  enters  the  house.  On  the 
right  another  door.  Against  the  walls  leather- 
covered  benches,  a  couple  of  wooden  stoves  and 
a  clothes  rack,  on  which  are  hats,  a  cape  and 
wraps.  As  the  curtain  rises,  the  old  drudge  Vir- 
ginia, her  skirts  trussed  up  and  her  legs  bare, 
stands  with  her  feet  in  wooden  clogs  amid  pails 
and  mops,  whisks  and  brooms,  washing  away 
the  tracks  on  the  vestibule  floor.  From  time  to 
time  she  breaks  of  to  blow  her  nose  voluminous- 
ly and  to  wipe  a  tear  away  with  the  corner  of 
her  blue  apron.  There  is  a  ring  at  the  house 
door;  Virginia  goes  to  open  it,  and  on  the  sill 
appears,  bare-headed  and  bare-footed,  the  tall 
and  emaciated  form  of  an  old  man,  with  scrubby 
beard  and  hair,  clothed  in  a  soiled,  sack-like, 
faded  and  much  dirtied  cowl.~\ 
ii 


12    A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

Virginia  [opening  the  door  cautiously].  Well, 
what  is  it?  God  bless  us  I  Another  beggar! 
What  are  you  after? 

Saint  Antony.    Let  me  in. 

Virginia.  No,  you're  too  muddy.  Stay  out  there. 
What  do  you  want? 

Saint  Antony.     To  enter. 

Virginia.    What  for? 

Saint  Antony.    To  restore  Miss  Hortensia  to  life. 

Virginia.  To  restore  Miss  Hortensia  to  life? 
Go  along!  Who  are  you? 

Saint  Antony.    Blessed  Saint  Antony. 

Virginia.     Of  Padua? 

Saint  Antony.  The  same.  [His  halo  glows  and 
brightens.] 

Virginia.  Jesus!  Jesus!  And  His  Mother 
Mary!  Well!  Well!  [She  swings  the  door 
wide  open,  falls  on  her  knees  and  begins  to 
pray  rapidly,  running  through  the  Angelic  Salu- 
tation,  her  hands  folded  on  her  broomstick. 
Then  she  kisses  the  hem  of  the  Saint's  robe  and 
resumes  mechanically  and  without  thinking:] 
Blessed  Saint  Antony,  have  pity  on  us!  Pray 
for  us,  Blessed  Saint  Antony!  .  .  .  Pray  for 
us! 

Saint  Antony.    Let  me  in  and  close  the  door. 

Virginia  [getting  up  crossly].  Well,  wipe  your 
feet  there  on  the  mat. 

Saint  Antony  [obeying  her  awkwardly].  She  is 
laid  out  in  there. 

Virginia    [bewildered   but  pleased].      How    did 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY    13 

you  know  that?  Sure  enough,  she  is  laid  out 
in  the  parlor !  Oh,  sir,  the  poor  old  lady !  Just 
turned  seventy-seven — that  ain't  much,  is  it? — 
and  wasn't  she  the  God-fearing  creature;  you 
don't  know  the  savings  she  laid  by  ...  And 
the  money  owing  to  her!  She  was  rich,  sure 
enough.  She's  left  a  neat  two  millions  behind 
her.  Two  millions  is  a  heap  of  money,  ain't  it? 

Saint  Antony.    Yes,  indeed. 

Virginia.  And  it  all  goes  to  her  two  nephews, 
Mr.  Gus  and  Mr.  Achilles  and  their  children. 
Mr.  Gus  gets  the  house  too.  And  she  left  a  sum 
to  the  pastor  and  to  the  church  and  to  the  sex- 
ton and  the  sacristan  and  to  the  poor  and  to  the 
Vicar  and  to  fourteen  Jesuits  and  to  all  her  do- 
mestics, according  to  how  long  they  was  in  her 
service.  It's  me  that  gets  the  most  of  that:  I 
was  33  years  in  her  service.  I'm  down  for 
3,300  francs.  That's  a  handsome  sum! 

Saint  Antony.     So   it  is. 

Virginia.  She  paid  me  my  just  wages  regular. 
You  can  say  what  you  please  .  .  .  There  ain't 
many  a  master  would  treat  you  that  way,  after 
they're  dead.  Oh!  She  was  a  God-fearing 
soul!  And  they're  burying  her  to-day.  Every- 
body has  sent  flowers.  You  ought  to  see  the 
parlor.  On  the  bed,  on  the  table,  on  the  chairs 
— the  arm  chairs — the  piano — everywhere  flow- 
ers! And  all  white,  it's  so  pretty!  We  don't 
know  where  to  put  all  the  wreaths.  [There  is 
a  ring.  She  opens  the  door  and  comes  back 


14   A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

with  two  wreaths. ]  Here  are  two  more.  [She 
scrutinizes  the  wreaths  and  weighs  them  in  her 
}iand.~\  They're  fine-looking,  ain't  they?  Just 
hold  them  a  minute  till  I  get  through  this  wash- 
ing up.  [She  gives  the  wreaths  to  St.  Antony, 
who  takes  one  in  each  hand  obligingly.]  This 
afternoon  she'll  be  taken  to  the  cathedral !  Ev- 
erything's got  to  be  in  order  and  I've  no  more 
than  time. 

St.  Antony.    Lead  me  to  the  corpse. 

Virginia.     Lead  you  to  the  corpse?     Now? 

St.  Antony.    Yes. 

Virginia.  No ! — no,  sir !  You'll  have  to  wait 
awhile;  they're  still  at  table. 

St.  Antony.  God  has  enjoined  haste;  it  is  time 
to  restore  her  to  life. 

Virginia.  You  don't  mean  to  raise  her  up  from 
the  dead? 

St.  Antony.     Yes. 

Virginia.  But  she's  three  days  dead;  she's 
stale  .  .  . 

St.  Antony.  Therefore,  on  the  third  day,  I  shall 
raise  her. 

Virginia.    For  her  to  live  again  like  she  used  to  ? 

St.  Antony.    Yes. 

Virginia.    Then  we  ain't  to  inherit  nothing? 

St.  Antony.    No. 

Virginia.    But  what'll  Mr.  Gus  say  to  that? 

St.  Antony.    I  don't  know. 

Virginia.  And  my  three  thousand,  three  hundred 
francs — now,  that's  too  bad. 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY    15 

St.  Antony.  Haven't  you  laid  by  anything,  Vir- 
ginia ? 

Virginia.  Not  a  farthing  .  .  .  I've  a  sick  sister 
takes  every  penny  I  earn. 

St.  Antony.  Well,  if  you  are  afraid  you'll  lose 
three  thousand  francs. 

Virginia.    Three  thousand,  three  hundred  francs ! 

St.  Antony.  If  you're  afraid  you'll  lose  them,  I 
shall  not  resurrect  Miss  Hortensia. 

Virginia.  Couldn't  you  arrange  it  so  she  could 
live  just  the  same  and  I  needn't  lose  the  money? 

St.  Antony.  No,  one  thing  or  the  other.  I  have 
heard  your  prayers  and  returned  to  earth,  Vir- 
ginia, and  now  you  must  choose  .  .  . 

Virginia  [after  brief  reflection].  Well,  then  .  .  . 
resurrect  her.  [The  halo  glows  again.~\  What's 
the  matter  with  you  now? 

St.  Antony.    You  have  made  me  happy. 

Virginia.  And  when  I  do  that,  does  your  thing, 
your  lantern  there,  begin  to  shine? 

St.  Antony.     Yes; — all  by  itself  .  .  . 

Virginia.  That's  queer.  Don't  stand  so  near  the 
curtains ;  you'll  set  them  on  fire. 

St.  Antony.  Don't  be  afraid,  the  flame  is  heav- 
enly. Lead  me  to  the  corpse. 

Virginia.  I  told  you  before,  you  must  wait.  I 
can't  be  disturbing  them  now.  Can't  you  see 
they're  all  at  table? 

St.  Antony.     Who? 

Virginia.  Why,  who  do  you  think?  The  whole 
family!  Her  two  nephews,  Mr.  Gustavus  and 


1 6    A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

Mr.  Achilles  with  his  wife  and  their  children 
and  Mr.  George  and  Mr.  Alberic  and  Mr.  Al- 
phonse  and  Mr.  Desire,  and  our  cousins  and 
their  ladies,  and  the  Pastor  and  the  Doctor,  and 
I  don't  know  who  all  besides.  Friends  and 
relatives  we  never  see  before,  and  some  from 
way  away!  They're  all  rich  people! 

St.  Antony.    Well,  well. 

Virginia.  You  see  the  street,  coming  in,  didn't 
you? 

St.  Antony.    What  street? 

Virginia.  What  street?  Jesus  Christ!  Our 
street!  In  front  of  our  house. 

St.  Antony.    Yes. 

Virginia.  A  grand  street.  Well,  all  the  houses 
on  the  left  side — except  the  first — you  know  that 
little  one  where  the  baker  lives — they  all  belong 
to  my  mistress.  All  the  houses  on  the  right  side 
of  the  street  belong  to  Mr.  Gus,  twenty-two  of 
them  in  all.  That's  a  neat  sum! 

St.  Antony.    Yes,  indeed. 

Virginia  [pointing  to  the  halo~\.  Look,  your 
thing  there;  your  lantern's  going  out. 

St.  Antony  [feeling  for  his  halo~\.  Yes,  I'm 
afraid. 

Virginia.  It  don't  burn  very  long  somehow,  does 
it? 

St.  Antony.  It  depends,  Virginia,  on  the  thoughts 
it  encounters. 

Virginia.  Hm!  .  .  .  Well,  they  own  woods  and 
farms  and  houses,  too.  Mr.  Gus  has  a  big 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY    17 

starch  factory — "Gustavus's  Starch,  Ltd." — you 
heard  of  it,  I'm  sure.  Yes,  it's  a  mighty  good 
and  a  mighty  rich  family.  Four  independent 
gentlemen  in  it  as  never  did  a  stroke  of  work! 
They're  all  come  to  the  burial,  and  some  from 
way  away.  There's  one  of  'em  had  to  travel  two 
days  in  the  night  to  be  here  prompt.  I'll  show 
him  to  you,  he's  got  a  beard.  They're  all  at 
table  still.  We  can't  be  disturbing  them  now. 
I  tell  you,  it's  a  right  big  lunch;  twenty-four 
covers.  I  see  the  bill  of  fare:  oysters,  two 
soups,  three  entrees,  lobster  jelly  and  trout  a  la 
Schubert  .  .  .  Do  you  know  what  that  is? 

St.  dntony.     No. 

Virginia.  Well,  no  more  do  I;  it's  something 
good,  but  not  for  the  likes  of  you  and  me. 
There's  no  champagne  on  account  of  the  mourn- 
ing, but  all  other  kinds  of  wine.  My  mistress 
had  the  best  cellar  in  town!  I'll  try  to  sneak 
you  out  a  good  glass  if  they  leave  us  anything. 
Just  you  wait  here,  I'll  see  what  they  are  doing 
now.  [She  goes  up  the  stairs,  draws  the  cur- 
tains aside  and  looks  through  the  glass  doors.] 
I  think  it's  that  trout — that  trout  a  la  Schubert! 
Oh,  there's  Joseph.  He's  just  taking  the  pine- 
apple off.  They've  a  good  two  hours  ahead  of 
them.  You'd  better  sit  down.  No,  no,  not  on 
the  leather  there,  you  are  too  dirty;  here,  on 
this  stool.  I  must  hurry  and  clean  up  now  .  .  . 
[St.  Antony  sits  down  on  the  stool,  Virginia 
goes  back  to  her  work  and  looks  for  a  pail.] 


1 8    A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

Look  out,  look  out.  Lift  up  your  feet!  I'm 
pouring  the  water.  No !  No !  get  out  of  that, 
you're  in  my  way  there !  Sit  down  in  that  cor- 
ner! Put  the  stool  up  against  the  wall.  [Sf. 
Antony  does  as  he  is  toldJ\  There  now:  you 
won't  get  wet.  Ain't  you  hungry? 

St.  Antony.  No,  thank  you,  but  I  am  in  a  hurry; 
so  go  and  tell  your  masters. 

Virginia.  You're  in  a  hurry?  What  have  you  got 
to  do? 

St.  Antony.    A  few  miracles. 

Virginia.  Well,  I  can't  be  disturbing  them  at 
table.  We  must  wait  till  coffee  is  served.  Mr. 
Gus  might  be  very  angry.  I  don't  know  what 
he'll  say  to  you,  sir:  he  ain't  for  having  poor 
people  come  into  his  house.  And  you  don't 
look  over-prosperous  .  .  . 

St.  Antony.     Saints  are  never  prosperous. 

Virginia.  But  you  get  a  good  bit  given  away  to 
you  .  .  . 

St.  Antony.  Not  everything  that  is  given  reaches 
Heaven,  Virginia. 

Virginia.  Don't  it?  And  it's  the  priests  take  what 
we  give  you,  is  it?  I've  heard  say  that,  but  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  it!  Jesus  Christ! — 
Listen  to  me ! 

St.  Antony.    Well? 

Virginia.  Do  you  see  up  there  behind  you — that 
brass  tap? 

St.  Antony.     Yes. 

Virginia.      Where   the    water's   dribbling   out — 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY    19 

there's  an  empty  pail  behind  you;  suppose  you 
was  to  fill  it  now. 

St.  Antony.    Certainly. 

Virginia.  I'll  never  get  this  all  clean  if  some  one 
don't  lend  me  a  hand.  And  not  a  soul  helps 
me;  they're  all  off  their  heads.  When  a  body 
dies,  it's  too  much  trouble !  But  I  guess  I  know 
all  about  that!  Lucky  it  don't  happen  every 
day,  ain't  it?  This  ain't  what  you'd  call  an 
easy  job.  I've  still  got  the  copper  to  shine. 
Now  then,  turn  off  the  tap,  that's  it.  And  bring 
me  the  pail.  Ain't  your  feet  cold?  Be  careful 
of  the  wreaths  there;  lay  them  on  the  stool. 
That's  right  .  .  .  Over  there  .  .  .  [St.  An- 
tony brings  her  the  pail.~\  Thank  you.  If  you're 
half  as  honest  as  you  are  obliging.  [There  is 
a  sound  of  voices  and  of  chairs  being  moved.] 
Listen !  [She  goes  to  the  glass  door.]  They're 
quarreling!  No,  they're  just  eating!  Joseph's 
just  helpin'  the  pastor.  The  master's  coming 
out.  I'll  tell  him  you  want  to  .  .  .  Sh!  Put 
down  the  pail!  Sit  down.  [St.  Antony  obeys 
and  is  about  to  sit  down  on  the  stool  on  which 
the  wreaths  are  lying.~\  Hey,  what  are  you 
doing?  You're  sitting  on  the  wreaths. 

St.  Antony.    Oh,  I  don't  see  very  well! 

Virginia.  Blockhead!  They're  a  pretty  sight 
now.  What'll  Mr.  Gus  say?  Well,  God  be 
praised !  They  ain't  so  bad  after  all.  Sit  down 
over  there,  hold  on  to  'em  and  be  quiet  as  a 
mouse.  [Kneeling  in  front  of  the  Saint.]  And 


20    A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

now,  sir,  I  would  like  to  ask  you  one  more  thing. 

St  Antony.    Speak;  do  not  be  afraid. 

Virginia.  Could  you  give  me  your  blessing,  sir, 
now  as  we're  alone?  When  the  company  comes 
in,  I'll  be  sent  out  of  the  room ;  and  I  won't  see 
you  no  more.  I'm  old  and  may  need  it. 

St.  Antony  [rises  and  blesses  her,  his  halo  glow- 
ing]. I  bless  you,  my  daughter,  for  you  are 
good;  guileless  of  heart,  open  of  mind;  without 
fault,  without  fear;  without  reticence  before  the 
great  secrets,  and  faithful  in  your  small  duties. 
Go  in  peace,  my  child,  and  tell  your  masters. 
[Exit  Virginia.  St.  Antony  sits  down  again  on 
the  stool.  Presently  the  glass  door  opens  and 
Gustavus  strides  in  followed  by  Virginia.'] 

Gustavus  [his  voice  raised  in  anger].  What's 
the  meaning  of  this?  What  do  you  want? 
Who  are  you? 

St.  Antony  [rising  discreetly"].  Blessed  Saint  An- 
tony. 

Gustavus.    Blessed  Saint 

St.  Antony.    Of  Padua. 

Gustavus.  What  kind  of  a  hoax  is  this?  I  am  not 
in  the  mood  for  laughing.  I  guess  you  have 
had  too  much  to  drink.  Well,  speak  up :  what 
are  you  here  for?  What  do  you  want? 

St.  Antony.    To  revive  your  aunt. 

Gustavus.  Revive  my — ?  [To  Virginia.]  He's 
drunk!  Why  did  you  let  him  in ?  [To  St.  An- 
tony.] Listen  to  me,  my  man,  we  have  no  time 
for  fooling;  my  aunt  is  to  be  buried  to-day.  You 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY    21 

can  come  back  to-morrow.  Here !  Here  are  a 
few  farthings. 

St.  Antony  [gently  obstinate].  I  wish  to  revive 
her  to-day. 

Gustavus.  All  right,  all  right!  after  the  cere- 
mony. Come  on  now;  here's  the  door. 

St.  Antony.  I  shall  not  leave  until  I  have  revived 
her. 

Gustavus  [flaming  out].  Here,  you!  I've  had 
enough  of  this.  You're  getting  tiresome;  do 
you  hear?  My  guests  are  waiting  for  me  .  .  . 
[He  opens  the  street  door.]  Out  with  you  now 
and  quick. 

St.  Antony.  I  shall  not  leave  until  I  have  re- 
vived .  .  . 

Gustavus.  Oh,  this  is  too  .  .  .  Well,  well,  we'll 
see  whether  you  will  or  not.  [He  opens  the 
glass  door  and  shouts.]  Joseph! 

Joseph  [appears  on  the  step,  a  large  steaming 
platter  in  his  hand].  Yes,  sir. 

Gustavus  [with  a  glance  at  the  dish].  What's 
that? 

Joseph.    The  fowl,  sir. 

Gustavus.  Give  it  to  Virginia  and  kick  this  vaga- 
bond out  on  the  street,  do  you  hear?  And 
promptly. 

Joseph  [giving  Virginia  tine  dish].  Certainly,  sir. 
[Going  up  to  the  Saint.]  Come  on,  old  codger, 
didn't  you  hear?  You're  in  the  wrong  house! 
Come  along  with  you!  Get  out!  .  .  .  You 
won't?  Open  the  door,  Virginia. 


22    A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

Gustavus.  I'll  open  it.  \_He  opens  the  street 
door.~\ 

Joseph.  All  right,  that's  enough;  he  ain't  ridin' 
out  .  .  .  [Rolling  up  his  sleeves  and  spitting  in 
his  hands.]  So,  now,  we'll  see  about  you.  [He 
grasps  St.  Antony  firmly  to  swing  him  out,  but 
the  Saint  stands  rooted  to  the  spot.  Stupefied.] 
Well,  what  the  ... 

Gustavus.    What's  the  matter? 

Joseph.  I  don't  know  what's  happened  to  him! 
There  'e  stands  like  'e  was  rooted  and  growing 
there.  'E  won't  budge. 

Gustavus.  I'll  help  you.  [Both  try  to  push  St. 
Antony  out,  but  he  remains  immovable.  Half- 
aside:]  Well,  on  my  soul!  .  .  .  He's  danger- 
ous. ...  Be  careful  .  .  .  He's  got  the 
strength  of  a  Hercules.  We  had  better  deal 
gently  with  Jjim.  Now  listen  to  me,  my  friend, 
you  understand,  don't  you,  that  on  such  a  day, 
at  the  burial  of  my  revered  aunt  .  .  . 

St.  Antony.  Whom  I  have  come  to  revive  from 
the  dead  .  .  . 

Gustavus.  But  you  understand,  surely,  that  this 
is  scarcely  the  time  .  .  .  The  fowl  will  be  cold, 
my  guests  are  waiting,  and  we  are  not  in  the 
mood  for  laughing.  [Achilles  appears,  napkin 
in  hand,  on  the  steps.] 

Achilles.  What's  the  matter,  Gus?  What's 
wrong?  We're  waiting  for  the  fowl. 

Gustavus.  The  fowl  I  It's  this  old  fool  who  won't 
go  out  .  .  . 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY    23 

Achilles.    Is  he  drunk? 

Gustavus.    Of  course. 

Achilles.  Put  him  out  and  be  done  with  it.  I 
don't  see  why  our  meal  should  be  spoiled  for 
a  dirty  tramp  .  .  . 

Gustavus.    He  won't  go. 

Achilles.  What's  that?  Won't  go?  We'll  soon 
see  about  that. 

Gustavus.     Try  him  yourself. 

Achilles.  I'm  not  going  to  take  such  a  dirty  beggar 
by  the  throat.  It  seems  to  me  that's  Joseph's 
business,  or — or  the  coachman's  .  .  . 

Gustavus.  We've  tried,  we  don't  want  to  scuffle — 
in  here — on  such  a  day.  [Other  guests  appear 
at  the  door,  most  of  them  still  with  their  mouths 
full  and  their  napkins  under  their  arms  or 
around  their  necks. ~\ 

A  Guest.    What's  it  all  about? 

A  Second.     What  are  you  doing,  Gus? 

A   Third.     What's  the  beggar  want? 

A  Fourth.    Where  has  he  sprung  from? 

Gustavus.  He  won't  go  out.  Another  blunder  of 
Virginia's.  As  soon  as  she  catches  sight  of  a 
beggar,  she  .  .  .  she  loses  her  head!  She  let 
this  fool  in ;  he  insists  on  seeing  Auntie  and  re- 
viving her. 

A  Guest.    We  must  send  for  the  police. 

Gustavus.  For  God's  sake,  no  scene!  I  don't 
want  the  police  in  this  house  on  a  day  like  this. 

Achilles.    A  moment,  Gus. 

Gustavus.    Well? 


24   A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

Achilles.  Have  you  noticed  that  two  or  three  tiles 
are  cracked  there  on  the  left  side,  at  the  end  of 
the  corridor? 

Gustavus.  Yes,  I  know.  I'm  going  to  have  a  mo- 
saic floor  laid  in  place  of  those  tiles. 

Achilles.    It'll  make  it  look  more  friendly. 

Gustavus.  Yes — one  more  up  to  date.  And  in 
place  of  this  door  and  these  white  curtains  I 
thought  of  putting  in  painted  window  sashes, 
illustrating  THE  CHASE,  INDUSTRY,  and 
PROGRESS,  with  a  garland  of  fruits  and  wild 
animals ! 

Achilles.    Yes,  that  would  be  handsome. 

Gustavus.  I'm  thinking  of  having  my  office  in 
there  [pointing  to  the  room  right'}  and  opposite 
the  employees'. 

Achilles.    When  are  you  moving  in? 

Gustavus.  A  few  days  after  the  wake.  It  would 
scarcely  be  becoming  to  move  in  the  very  next 
day. 

Achilles.  Of  course,  but  meanwhile,  we  must  get 
rid  of  this — this  unbidden  guest. 

Gustavus.    He  acts  as  if  he  were  quite  at  home ! 

Achilles  [to  St.  Antony,  sarcastically].  Won't 
you  have  a  chair? 

St.  Antony  [naively].    Thank  you,  I  am  not  tired. 

Achilles.  Let  me  have  a  try,  I'll  get  him  out  .  .  . 
[Approaching  the  saint  with  a  friendly  gesture.] 
Well,  my  friend,  won't  you  tell  us  who  you  are? 

St.  Antony.     Blessed  Saint  Antony. 

Achilles.     Why,   of  course,  you  are!      [To   the 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY    25 

others."}  He  sticks  to  that,  but  he's  not  vicious. 
[He  notices  the  pastor  among  the  guests  who 
have  crowded  around  Saint  Antony  with  scepti- 
cal and  derisive  glances. ,]  Ah,  here's  the  pas- 
tor, he  knows  you,  and  wants  to  pay  you  his  re- 
spects. Come  on,  pastor,  saints  are  your  busi- 
ness. I  know  more  about  farmers'  machines 
and  ploughshares.  Here  is  a  messenger  from 
Heaven,  pastor,  the  mighty  Saint  Antony  him- 
self, who  would  like  to  speak  with  you.  [  Under 
his  breath  to  the  pastor:]  We  want  to  get  him 
quietly  to  the  door,  without  letting  him  notice 
it;  as  soon  as  he  is  outside,  good-bye  and  God- 
speed to  him! 

The  Pastor  [unctuously  and  paternally].  Mighty 
Saint  Antony,  your  vassal  in  all  humility  bids 
you  welcome  to  this  world,  which  we  praise  God 
you  have  elected  to  honor  with  your  presence. 
What  does  your  Holiness  desire? 

St.  Antony.    I  wish  to  revive  Miss  Hortensia. 

The  Pastor.  Poor  lady,  poor  lady!  However, 
such  a  miracle  would  assuredly  present  no  diffi- 
culties to  the  greatest  of  our  saints.  The  dear 
deceased  had  a  particular  cult  for  you.  I  will 
conduct  you  to  her,  if  your  Holiness  will  take  the 
trouble  to  follow  me  .  .  .  [He  goes  to  the 
street  door  and  beckons  to  St.  Antony.]  This 
way,  please. 

St.  Antony  [pointing  to  the  door  right].  No,  that 
way. 

The  Pastor.    Your  Holiness  will  pardon  me  if  I 


26    A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

seem  to  contradict  you;  but  on  account  of  the 
press  of  mourners  the  corpse  has  been  removed 
to  the  house  opposite,  which  if  I  may  mention  it, 
also  forms  part  of  the  property  of  dear  de- 
ceased. 

St.  Antony  [pointing  to  the  door  right].  In  there, 
in  there. 

The  Pastor  [more  and  more  unctuous].  To  con- 
vince yourself  of  the  contrary,  your  Holiness 
has  only  to  follow  me  a  moment  onto  the  street; 
from  there  you  will  see  the  candles  and  black 
hangings  .  .  . 

St.  Antony  [immovable,  pointing  to  the  door  on 
the  right].  There  will  I  enter;  there;  there. 

A  Guest.    He's  got  a  nerve ! 

Gustavus.    He's  going  a  bit  too  far,  really  .  .  . 

A  Guest.  Suppose  we  open  the  door  and  all  of  us 
rush  him  out  .  .  . 

Gustavus.  No !  no !  no  scene !  He  might  be  nasty. 
He's  not  to  be  fooled  with;  he's  got  the  strength 
of  a  bear.  Keep  your  hands  off.  Joseph  and 
I  are  strong  men  and  we  couldn't  budge  him. 

Achilles.  But  who  told  him  the  corpse  lay  in 
there? 

Gustavus.  Virginia,  of  course ;  she's  babbled  about 
as  much  as  it  was  possible  to  babble. 

Virginia.  Me,  sir?  No,  sir!  Not  me,  I  was 
attending  to  my  work.  I  answered  Yes  and  No, 
nothing  else — Didn't  I,  Saint  Antony?  [St.  An- 
tony does  not  reply.]  Well!  Speak  up  when 
a  body  talks  to  you  friendly. 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY    27 

St.  Antony.    She  told  me  nothing. 

Virginia.     There  now,  you  see.     He's  a  blessed 

saint;  he  knew  it  all  beforehand.     I  tell  you, 

there's  nothing  he  don't  know. 
Achilles  [going  up  to  the  Saint  and  clapping  him 

amicably  on  the  shoulder].     Now,  then,  young 

fellow,  come  on;  step  along,  come,  come. 
The  Guests.    He's  moving;  no,  he's  not  moving! 
Achilles.     I've  an  idea. 
Gustavus.    Well? 
Achilles.    Where's  the  Doctor? 
A  Guest.     He's  still  at  table;  he's  finishing  his 

trout. 
Gustavus.    Go  and  call  him.     [Some  go  of  to  get 

the  doctor.']     You're  right,  he's  a  madman;  it's 

the  Doctor's  business. 

The  Doctor  [appears  with  his  mouth  full,  his  nap- 
kin around  his  neck].    What's  up?    Is  he  mad? 

Is  he  sick?    Is  he  drunk?     [Looking  the  Saint 

over.]     A  beggar!     I  can  do  nothing  for  him. 

Well,  my  friend,  what's  the  matter  with  you? 
St.  Antony.     I  wish  to  revive  Miss  Hortensia. 
The  Doctor.    I  see  you're  not  a  medical  man.    Let 

me  feel  your  pulse.     [He  feels  his  pulse.]     Do 

you  feel  any  pain? 
St.  Antony.    No. 
The  Doctor  [feeling  his  head  and  brow].     And 

here?    Does  it  hurt  when  I  press? 
St.  Antony.     No. 
The  Doctor.     Good,  good.     Do  you  ever  suffer 

from  vertigo? 


28    A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

St.  Antony.    No. 

The  Doctor.  And  in  your  younger  days?  No 
serious  accidents?  No  ...  no  youthful  indis- 
cretions? You  understand  what  I  mean?  Or 
constipation?  Eh?  Well,  and  your  tongue? 
Let  me  have  a  look  at  that.  That's  right.  Now 
breathe  deep.  Deeper,  deeper.  That's  right. 
What  do  you  want  here? 

St.  Antony.    To  go  in  there. 

The  Doctor.    What  for? 

St.  Antony.    To  revive  Miss  Hortensia. 

The  Doctor.    She  isn't  there. 

St.  Antony.    She  is  there,  I  see  her. 

Gustavus.    He  won't  give  it  up. 

Achilles.     Couldn't  you  bleed  him? 

The  Doctor.    What  for? 

Achilles.  To  put  him  to  sleep.  We  could  easily 
get  him  on  the  street  then. 

The  Doctor.  No,  no,  that  would  be  foolish.  He's 
dangerous. 

Achilles.  That's  the  worst  of  it;  he's  equal  to  all 
of  us  put  together.  But,  after  all,  we  aren't 
called  upon  to  put  up  with  vagabonds,  and 
drunkards  and  fools.  Are  we? 

The  Doctor.    Do  you  want  my  opinion? 

Gustavus.     Please. 

The  Doctor.  We  have  to  deal  with  a  madman, 
who  can  easily  become  dangerous  if  we  cross 
him.  Furthermore,  there  is  no  disrespect  in- 
tended to  the  dear  deceased.  I  don't  see  why 


we  should  not  gratify  his  simple  desire  and  let 
him  into  the  room  for  a  moment. 

Gustavus.  Never — as  long  as  I  live !  What  are 
we  coming  to  if  a  stranger  can  force  his  way 
into  a  respectable  family  on  the  crazy  pretext 
of  reviving  a  dead  woman  who  never  did  him 
any  harm? 

The  Doctor.    As  you  please,  it's  for  you  to  decide. 

Achilles.    The  Doctor's  right. 

The  Doctor.  There's  nothing  to  fear.  I  hold  my- 
self personally  responsible;  and  besides,  we  are 
all  here  and  can  go  in  with  him. 

Gustavus.  Well,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  put 
an  end  to  the  matter.  But  don't  let  anybody 
talk  about  this  ridiculous  incident,  will  you? 

Achilles.    Auntie's  jewels  are  on  the  chimney,  Gus. 

Gustavus.  I  know.  I'll  keep  an  eye  on  them. 
[To  the  Saint.'}  Well,  then,  come  on,  this  way. 
We  haven't  finished  lunch  yet.  So  a  little  lively, 
please.  \_All  go  into  the  room  on  the  right,  fol- 
lowed by  Saint  Antony,  whose  halo  suddenly 
flames  out  brilliantly .] 


SECOND  SCENE 

[A  living  room.  In  the  rear  on  a  huge  canopy  bed- 
stead lies  the  corpse  of  the  maiden  lady,  Hor- 
tensia.  Two  burning  candles,  some  branches  of 
box-wood,  etc.  Left,  a  door.  Right,  a  glass 
door  leading  to  the  garden.  All  the  characters 


30    A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

of  the  first  episode  troop  through  the  door 
(left)  into  the  room,  followed  by  Saint  An- 
tony, to  whom  Gustavus  shows  the  corpse."] 

Gustavus.  Now,  are  you  satisfied?  Here  lies  the 
dear  departed,  quite  dead,  you  see.  And  now  I 
think  we  are  entitled  to  be  left  alone.  [To  Vir- 
ginia.'} Lead  the  gentleman  out  by  the  garden 
door. 

St.  Antony.  One  moment.  [He  walks  into  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  standing  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  turns  towards  the  corpse  and  speaks  in 
a  strong,  grave  voice. ~\  Arise  ! 

Gustavus.  There,  there,  that's  enough.  We  can't 
stand  by  and  have  a  stranger  offend  our  most 
sacred  feelings. 

St.  Antony.  Be  quiet.  [He  goes  nearer  the  bed 
and  raises  his  voice  more  commandingly.~\ 
Arise! 

Gustavus  [losing  patience].  Now,  that's  enough. 
Here's  the  door. 

St.  Antony  [in  a  deeper  and  yet  more  commanding 
voice~\.  Hortensia,  return  and  arise  from  the 
dead!  [To  the  consternation  of  all  present  the 
dead  woman  stirs  slightly,  half  opens  her  eyes, 
spreads  her  folded  hands,  slowly  sits  up  in  bed, 
sets  her  cap  straight  on  her  head,  and  looks 
around  her,  vexed  and  reluctant;  she  then  pro- 
ceeds quietly  to  scratch  of  a  spot  of  candle 
grease  which  she  discovers  on  the  arm  of  her 
night  dress.  For  a  moment  an  oppressive  silence 
reigns,  then  Virginia  leaves  the  speechless  group 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY   31 

about  her,  hurries  to  the  bed  and  throws  herself 
into  the  arms  of  the  resurrected  woman.~\ 

Virginia.  Miss  Hortensia !  She's  alive !  Just 
look  at  her:  she's  scratching  away  a  grease  spot, 
she  is  looking  for  her  glasses !  Saint  Antony ! 
Saint  Antony!  A  miracle!  A  miracle!  Kneel 
down !  Kneel  down ! 

Gustavus.  Keep  still,  don't  talk.  This  is  not  the 
time  for  .  .  . 

Achilles.     There  is  no  doubt  about  it,  she's  alive. 

A  Guest.  It  isn't  possible.  What  has  he  done 
to  her? 

Gustavus.  You  can't  take  it  seriously.  She'll  re- 
lapse immediately. 

Achilles.     Just  see  how  she  stares  at  us. 

Gustavus.  I  don't  believe  it  yet.  What  kind  of 
a  world  do  we  live  in?  Where  are  the  laws  of 
nature  ?  Doctor,  what  do  you  say  to  this  ? 

The  Doctor  \_embarr assed~\.  What  do  I  say? 
Why,  I  say  ...  I  say  .  .  .  that  it's  none  of 
my  business — it's  quite  outside  my  field:  quite 
absurd — and  quite  simple !  She  lives :  ergo,  she 
was  never  dead.  That's  no  reason  for  throwing 
up  your  hands  and  crying,  A  Miracle ! 

Gustavus.     But  didn't  you  say 

The  Doctor.  What  did  I  say?  I  beg  you  to  recall 
that  I  asserted  nothing,  absolutely  nothing;  I 
beg  you  to  recall  that  I  never  even  certified  her 
death,  did  I  ?  I  even  had  very  grave  doubts — 
though  I  did  not  see  fit  to  impart  them  to  you  at 
the  time — for  fear  of  raising  false  hopes.  Be- 


32    A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

sides,  it  is  not  probable  that  she  will  survive  this 
long. 

Achilles.  Meanwhile,  though,  we  must  accept  the 
evidence  of  our  senses,  the  blessed  evidence  of 
our  senses ! 

Virginia.  There  ain't  no  doubt !  I  told  you  he's 
a  Saint,  a  big  Saint  .  .  .  Just  look,  she's  alive  \ 
And  as  fresh  as  a  rose ! 

Gustavus  [goes  to  the  bed  and  embraces  the  resur- 
rected woman].  Aunt,  my  dear  aunt,  is  it  really 
you? 

Achilles  [also  approaching  the  bed~\.  Do  you 
know  me,  dear  aunt?  I  am  Achilles,  your 
nephew. 

An  Old  Lady.  And  me,  auntie  ?  I  am  your  niece, 
Leontine. 

A  Young  Girl.  And  me,  godmother?  I  am  your 
little  Valentine  to  whom  you  left  all  your  sil- 
ver .  .  . 

Gustavus.    She  smiles  I   .  .  .  She  recognizes  us  all. 

Achilles  [seeing  the  old  lady  open  her  mouth  and 
move  her  lips~\ .  Listen !  She  is  trying  to  speak. 

Virginia.  Heavenly  Father!  And  she  has  seen 
God  Almighty!  She'll  tell  us  all  about  the  mar- 
vels of  Paradise !  Kneel — kneel  down ! 

Achilles.     Listen !  Listen ! 

Hortensia  [who  has  been  eyeing  St.  Antony  with 
scorn  and  disgust,  now  speaks  sharply~\.  What 
sort  of  a  creature  is  that?  Who  has  so  far  for- 
gotten himself  as  to  introduce  into  my  apart- 
ment such  a  barefoot  scamp?  He'll  ruin  the 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY    33 

carpets !  Put  him  out  at  once  I  Virginia,  haven't 
I  told  you  you're  not  to  let  beggars  .  .  . 

St.  Antony  [raising  his  hand  commandingly~\.  Si- 
lence. [The  woman  stops  short  and  sits  open- 
mouthed,  unable  to  utter  a  sound.~\ 

Gustavus.  You  must  forgive  her,  she  doesn't  yet 
realize  what  she  owes  to  you ;  but  we — ah !  we 
realize  what  we  owe  you  1  What  you  have  ac- 
complished to-day  is  something,  I  venture  to  say, 
which  no  one  else  in  this  room  would — or  rather 
could — accomplish!  Whether  it  was  an  acci- 
dent or — something  higher — who  can  say?  For 
my  part,  I  will  not  presume  to  judge,  but  this 
much  I  will  say :  I  am  proud  and  happy  to  clasp 
your  hand,  sir. 

St.  Antony.  I  wish  to  leave  now,  I  have  other 
work  to  do. 

Gustavus.  Oh,  don't  be  in  such  a  hurry!  We 
can't  let  you  go  empty-handed!  I  don't  know 
what  my  aunt  will  want  to  give  you — that's  her 
business,  but  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  shall 
take  the  matter  up  with  my  brother-in-law,  and 
whatever  he  may  decide — accident  or  miracle — 
we'll  pay — yes,  sir,  we'll  pay,  and  no  words 
wasted  either!  Yes,  sir:  you  shan't  regret  what 
you  have  done.  Eh,  Achilles  ? 

A chilles.  Why,  certainly !  He  shan't  regret  what 
he  has  done. 

Gustavus.  Well,  we  ain't  very  wealthy,  of  course ; 
we've  got  children,  and  our  .  .  .  our  expecta- 
tions have  all  vanished  now;  but  we'll  prove  our 


34   A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

gratitude.  The  honor  of  the  family  demands 
it.  We  couldn't  let  it  be  said  that  a  beggar,  a 
stranger  did  us  a — a  peculiar  service,  and  de- 
parted unrecompensed — eh?  Of  course,  the  re- 
ward will  have  to  be  in  proportion  to  our  means, 
which  as  I  say  are  now  sadly  shrunken;  but  as 
far  as  in  us  lies,  we  will  pay — pay  for  a  good 
deed!  To  be  sure,  there  are  some  services  that 
can  not  be  bought — which  indeed  one  should  not 
attempt  to  pay  for.  But  .  .  .  Don't  interrupt 
me  .  .  .  That's  no  reason  for  doing  nothing  at 
all.  So  now,  tell  us  what  you  would  like  .  .  . 
hm  .  .  . 

Achilles.  I  propose  we  take  up  a  little  collection, 
not  by  way  of  settlement,  but 

St.  Antony.  I  wish  to  leave.  I  have  other  work 
to  do. 

Gustavus.  Other  work  to  do!  It  ain't  polite. 
Now,  listen  to  me,  if  you  don't  want  to  take  any- 
thing— and  I  appreciate  the  delicacy  of  your 
feelings  and  bow  to  them — at  least  you  will  give 
us  the  pleasure,  won't  you,  of  accepting  some 
small  souvenir?  A  cigar-holder,  say,  or  a  stud- 
pin,  or  a  meerschaum  pipe.  I  can  have  your 
name,  address,  and  date  of  birth  engraved  on  it. 

St.  Antony.    I  can  accept  nothing. 

Gustavus.     You  mean  that? 

St.  Antony.    Yes. 

Achilles  [taking  out  his  cigar  case"].  Well,  at  least 
you'll  do  us  the  honor  of  smoking  a  cigar  with 
us? 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY    35 

St.  Antony.     Thank  you,  I  don't  smoke. 

Achilles.  Wait,  I've  an  idea.  Since  the  gentleman 
won't  accept  anything — and,  like  my  brother,  I 
appreciate  and  applaud  his  delicacy  of  feeling, 
as  I  am  sure  we  all  do — for  life  is  a  treasure  that 
can't  be  bought — well,  then,  since  he  has  shown 
himself  so  disinterested,  perhaps  he  will  do  us 
the  honor  of  lunching  with  us,  of  finishing  the 
meal  he  has  so  auspiciously  interrupted?  What 
do  you  say?  [Loud  murmurs  of  assent.] 

Gustavus.  Yes,  by  all  means !  Come  on,  we  are 
a  sociable  crowd:  we  haven't  any  pride  or  airs 
about  us,  you  see  .  .  . 

St.  Antony.    I  am  awaited  elsewhere. 

Gustavus.  Oh,  come,  you  can't  refuse  us  this! 
And  who  can  be  awaiting  you  anyway? 

St.  Antony.     Another  corpse. 

Gustavus.  Another  corpse  !  Nothing  but  corpses 
.  .  .  Well,  I  must  say,  I  hope  you  don't  prefer 
the  dead  to  us. 

Achilles.  I  know  what  it  is  .  .  .  You  would  rath- 
er eat  downstairs  in  the  kitchen,  wouldn't  you? 
You'd  feel  more  at  home  there. 

Gustavus.     Then  he  can  come  upstairs  for  coffee. 

Achilles.  Yes,  yes.  Ha !  Ha !  That's  more  to 
his  taste.  Virginia,  leave  your  mistress  a  mo- 
ment; she  doesn't  need  you  now;  take  this  gen- 
tleman downstairs  and  do  him  "the  honors  of 
your  realm"  !  Ha  !  tjTa  !  I  guess  Virginia  and 
you  won't  go  to  sleep  together !  [He  slaps  the 
saint  familiarly  on  the  belly. ,]  Ha,  ha !  You 


36    A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

old  hypocrite,  I  see  through  you  !  So  run  along 
.  .  .  You  old  swindler,  you  damned  old  swin- 
dler! 

Virginia  [alarmed].    But,  master! 

Gustavus.    What's  wrong? 

Virginia.  I  don't  know;  Miss  Hortensia  ain't  free 
to  speak  no  more. 

Gustavus.    What? 

Virginia.  No,  sir,  just  take  a  look  at  her  yourself, 
please,  sir.  She's  got  her  mouth  wide  open, 
and  moves  her  lips,  and  works  her  hands,  but 
it's  like  her  voice  was  gone. 

Gustavus.  Dear  Aunt,  what's  the  matter?  Is 
there  something  you  want  to  say  to  us?  [She 
nods.~\  And  you  can't?  Now,  now,  just  make 
an  effort,  it's  a  little  stiffness,  that's  all.  It  will 
soon  pass.  [She  makes  a  sign  that  she  can  no 
longer  speak.~\  What's  the  matter  with  you? 
What  do  you  want?  [To  St.  Antony. ~\  What's 
the  meaning  of  this? 

St.  Antony.     She  will  speak  no  more. 

Gustavus.  She  will  speak  no  more?  But  .  .  . 
but  .  .  .  she  spoke  just  now.  You  heard  her 
.  .  .  She  was  rude  to  you. 

St.  Antony.     She  will  speak  no  more. 

Gustavus.    Can't  you  give  her  back  her  voice? 

St.  Antony.    No. 

Gustavus.    But  when  will  her  voice  come  back? 

St.  Antony.    Never  again. 

Gustavus.  She'll  be  dumb  till  the  day  of  her 
death? 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY    37 

'St.  Antony.    Yes. 

Gustavus.     Why? 

St.  Antony.  She  has  beheld  secrets  she  may  not 
reveal. 

Gustavus.    Secrets?    What  secrets? 

St.  Antony.    In  the  world  of  the  dead. 

Gustavus.  In  the  world  of  the  dead?  This  is 
going  too  far.  She  spoke,  we  heard  her,  we 
have  witnesses.  You've  deprived  her  of  speech 
with  a  purpose  which  I  now  begin  to  see 
through.  You  have  betrayed  our  confidence. 

Achilles.  Yes,  our  confidence;  you're  absolutely 
irresponsible. 

Gustavus.  Who  asked  you  to  come  here  anyway? 
It's  a  hard  thing  to  say,  but  I'd  rather  see  her 
dead  than  in  this  condition.  This  is  too  terrible, 
too  painful  for  us  who  love  her. 

The  Doctor.  Allow  me  a  word.  Be  quiet,  please. 
[Going  up  to  the  Saint. ]  Let  me  have  a  look 
at  your  eyes,  my  friend  .  .  .  Just  what  I 
thought  ...  I  knew  what  I  had  to  expect  .  .  . 
You  see,  she  never  was  dead.  There  is  nothing 
supernatural  or  mysterious  about  this.  The  fel- 
low is  simply  gifted  with  a  rather  extraordinary 
nervous  force.  He  came  just  at  the  right  mo- 
ment. 

Gustavus.    But  what  are  we  going  to  do  now  ? 

The  Doctor.  Send  for  the  police.  He's  danger- 
ous. 

Gustavus.  That's  what  he  deserves  .  .  .  [Shout- 
ing J\  Joseph  1 


38    A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

Joseph.    Yes,  sir? 

Gustavus.  Run  to  the  station  and  fetch  a  couple 
of  officers.  Tell  them  to  bring  handcuffs. 

Joseph.    Yes,  sir.     \He  runs  out.'] 

St.  Antony.    I  ask  your  permission  to  withdraw. 

Gustavus.  All  right,  you  old  rascal.  Your  time's 
up.  You  will  be  able  to  withdraw  in  a  very  few 
minutes,  and  in  first  rate  company,  too,  just  wait 
and  see. 

Achilles.  And  one  more  bit  of  advice  .  .  .  These 
gentlemen  who  are  about  to  honor  you  with  their 
company — talk  to  them  of  farming  and  stock — 
of  stock  and  horseflesh  1  Let  your  trade  be 
stock  farming:  that's  the  way  to  get  along  with 
them  .  .  .  Here  they  are.  [Joseph  comes  back 
accompanied  by  two  officers  and  a  police  ser- 
geant.] 

The  Sergeant  [pointing  to  St.  Antony~\.  Is  that 
the  offender? 

Gustavus.    That's  the  man. 

Sergeant  [laying  his  hand  on  St.  Antony~\.  Your 
papers. 

St.  Antony.    What  papers? 

Sergeant.  You  haven't  none?  I  knew  it.  What's 
your  name? 

St.  Antony.    Blessed  Saint  Antony. 

Sergeant.  Saint  Antony?  What  do  you  take  me 
for?  That's  no  Christian  name.  I  want  the 
other,  your  real  one. 

St.  Antony.    I  have  no  other. 

Sergeant.    Where  did  you  steal  this  garment? 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY   39 

St.  Antony.    I  didn't  steal  it.    It's  my  own. 

Sergeant.    Where  were  you  born? 

St.  Antony.    In  Padua. 

Sergeant.  In  Padua?  Where's  that?  What 
province  ? 

Gustavus.    It's  in  Italy,  Sergeant. 

Sergeant.  I  know,  I  know,  but  I  want  him  to  tell 
me.  So  you're  an  Italian  1  Just  what  I  thought. 
Where  do  you  hail  from? 

St.  Antony.     From  Paradise. 

Sergeant.  From  Paradise?  And  what  sort  of  a 
reformatory  is  that? 

St.  Antony.  It  is  the  abode  to  which  the  souls  of 
the  departed  in  the  bosom  of  their  Maker 
turn  .  .  . 

Sergeant.    What  has  he  done?  .  .  .  Stolen? 

Gustavus.  I  shouldn't  like  to  say  whether  he  has 
stolen  or  not.  I  haven't  had  time  yet  to  see, 
and  I  don't  believe  in  offhand  accusations;  but 
what  he  has  done  is,  in  my  opinion,  far  worse. 

Sergeant.    Of  course  ...  of  course ! 

Gustavus.  You  know  what  an  affliction  we  are 
laboring  under,  Sergeant.  Apparently,  he  reck- 
oned on  the  upset  condition  of  the  household 
and  our  grief  to  get  a  good  haul.  He  had  prob- 
ably learned  from  an  accomplice  that  the  jewels 
and  the  silver  of  our  dead  aunt  had  been  laid 
out  on  the  chimney.  Well,  unluckily  for  him,  our 
aunt  was  not  dead.  When  she  saw  this  suspi- 
cious-looking person  in  her  room,  she  came  to 
and  began  to  scream  for  help;  whereupon  in  re- 


40    A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

venge  for  his  failure  he  deprives  her  of  speech, 
and  in  spite  of  our  pleading  refuses  to  restore 
it  to  her, — naturally  in  the  hope  of  being  able 
to  bring  us  to  terms  !  I  beg  you  to  notice  that  I 
am  not  lodging  a  complaint,  I  am  merely  stating 
the  facts  of  the  case.  Besides,  you  can  ask  the 
Doctor  here. 

The  Doctor.  I  will  give  the  required  information 
in  the  presence  of  the  Police  Lieutenant.  If 
you  wish  I  will  draw  up  a  report. 

Achilles.  He  is  either  a  malefactor  or  a  madman, 
or  both;  in  any  case  a  dangerous  individual  who 
ought  to  be  kept  under  lock  and  key. 

Sergeant.     Of  course.     Rabutteau! 

The  Officer.    Yes,  sir. 

Sergeant.    The  handcuffs. 

Gustavus.  And  now,  gentlemen,  after  all  this 
trouble,  won't  you  do  us  the  honor  of  drinking 
a  glass  of  wine  with  us  before  you  go? 

Sergeant.  My  word,  we  won't  say  No  to  that,  eh, 
Rabutteau,  particularly  as  our  charge  here  don't 
look  very  sociable  inclined. 

Gustavus.  Joseph,  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  glasses. 
[Exit  Joseph.]  We  will  drink  to  the  recovery  of 
my  aunt. 

Sergeant.     Not  a  bad  idea — in  such  weather! 

Gustavus.     Is  it  still  raining? 

Sergeant.  A  regular  flood,  sir!  I  just  stepped 
across  the  street,  and  look  at  this  cloak!  [Jo- 
seph returns  with  a  tray  and  passes  glasses  to 
the  assembled  company.] 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY   41 

Sergeant  [raising  his  glass~\.  Ladies  and  gentle- 
men, your  health ! 

Gustavus.  Your  health,  Sergeant.  [All  touch 
glasses  with  the  officers.'}  Won't  you  have  an- 
other? 

Sergeant.  I'm  ready  enough,  I  guess.  [Licking 
his  lips.']  It's  a  good  wine,  sir. 

St.  Antony.  I  am  thirsty,  I  would  like  a  glass  of 
water. 

Sergeant  [scornfully'].  A  glass  of  water!  Ha, 
but  hark  to  the  storm  outside !  You'll  get 
plenty  of  water  in  a  minute.  Just  wait,  young 
man,  till  we  get  you  out — you'll  get  your  mouth 
full.  Well,  come  on,  we've  delayed  long 
enough.  [The  street  bell  rings. ~\ 

Gustavus.  There's  a  ring.  [Joseph  goes  out  to 
open  the  door.']  How  late  is  it?  It's  probably 
the  after-dinner  guests. 

Achilles.  Not  yet  .  .  .  It's  only  three  o'clock. 
[ The  Police  Lieutenant  strides  in.~\  Here  comes 
the  Police  Lieutenant,  Mitou. 

Lieutenant.  Good  day,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  I've 
heard  all  about  it.  [Looking  at  St.  Antony.~\ 
Yes,  I  suspected  as  much,  it  is  St.  Antony  him- 
self .  .  .  the  great  St.  Antony  of  Padua. 

Gustavus.    You  know  him  then? 

Lieutenant.  I  should  say  I  do:  We've  turned 
him  out  of  the  hospital  three  times.  You  under- 
stand, he's  a  little  [he  points  to  his  forehead] 
and  each  time  he's  turned  out,  he  plays  the  same 
pranks,  heals  the  sick,  makes  the  halt  whole, 


42    A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY 

steals  the  doctors'  work  and  all  without  a  li- 
cense !  [He  goes  up  to  the  Saint  and  looks  him 
over  carefully. ,]  Yes,  he's  the  man.  Or  at  least, 
well,  he's  changed  since  his  last  escapade.  But 
if  it  ain't  he,  it's  his  twin.  I  don't  know,  there's 
something  about  him  don't  seem  to  me  quite 
right,  but  we'll  see  about  that  in  court.  Come 
on,  I've  got  no  time  to  waste.  March,  my  man, 
march. 

Gustavus.  Take  him  out  this  way  through  the 
garden,  it  won't  attract  so  much  attention. 
[The  door  to  the  garden  is  opened.  Snow, 
wind,  and  rain  drive  into  the  room.] 

Achilles.  Devilish  weather!  [St.  Antony  is  led 
to  the  door.] 

Virginia  [hurrying  forward].  But,  master,  the 
poor  man  .  .  .  Look!  He's  barefooted! 

Gustavus.  Well,  what  of  it?  Are  we  to  get  him 
a  carriage  or  a  holy  shrine? 

Virginia.  No,  I'll  lend  him  my  sabots.  Take 
them,  Blessed  Antony,  I've  got  others. 

St.  Antony  [putting  on  the  sabots].  Thank  you. 
[His  halo  begins  to  glow.] 

Virginia.  And  aren't  you  wearing  anything  on 
your  head?  You'll  catch  cold. 

St.  Antony.     I  have  nothing. 

Virginia.  Take  my  little  handkerchief.  I'll  get 
you  my  umbrella.  [She  hurries  out.] 

Achilles.    The  old  fool  .  .  . 

Oustavus.  That's  all  right,  but  meanwhile  there's 
a  devil  of  a  draught  coming  in. 


A  MIRACLE  OF  SAINT  ANTONY    43 

Virginia  [returns  with  a  huge  umbrella  which  she 
gives  St.  Anthony].  Here's  my  umbrella. 

St.  Antony  [showing  his  hands~\.  They  have 
bound  my  hands. 

Virginia.  I'll  go  with  you !  [She  opens  the  um- 
brella and  holds  it  over  St.  Antony,  who  goes 
out  between  the  two  officers.  The  halo  glows 
under  the  umbrella  and  the  group  disappears 
through  the  garden  in  the  snow] 

Gustavus   [closing  the  door~\.     At  last. 

Achilles.    What  a  rascal. 

Gustavus  [going  to  the  bed~\.     Well,  Aunt? 

Achilles.  What's  the  matter  with  her?  She  is 
failing. 

The  Doctor  [hurrying  up~\.  I  don't  know.  I 
believe  .  .  . 

Gustavus  [bending  over  the  bed].  Aunt!  Aunt! 
How  are  you? 

The  Doctor.  This  time  she  is  really  dying.  I  told 
you  so. 

Gustavus.    Impossible. 

Achilles.    But,  Doctor,  is  there  nothing  we  can  do  ? 

The  Doctor.  Nothing — unfortunately!  [Silence. 
All  gather  around  the  bed.] 

Gustavus  [the  first  to  recover].    What  a  day! 

Achilles.  Listen !  Did  you  ever  hear  such  a 
storm? 

Gustavus.  Well,  now,  you  know,  we  were  a  bit 
hard  on  the  poor  beggar!  When  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  he  really  didn't  do  us  any  harm  .  .  . 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 


PERSONS 

ARKEL,  King  of  Allemonde. 

GENEVIEVE,  Mother  of  Pelleas  and  Golaud. 

^  '  \  Grandsons  of  Arkel. 

GOLAUD,  J 

MELISANDE. 

LITTLE  YNIOLD,  Son  of  Golaud  by  a  previous 

marriage. 
A  DOCTOR. 
THE  DOOR-KEEPER. 
MAID-SERVANTS,  BEGGARS,  ETC. 


PELLEAS  AND 
MELISANDE 

ACT  I 

SCENE  I.    The  Castle  Door 

The  Maid-servants    [within~].     Open   the   door  I 

Open  the  door! 
The  Door-keeper  [within'].    Who  is  there?  Why 

have  you  come  and  waked  me?     Out  by  the 

little  doors,  out  by  the  little  doors;  there  are 

enough  of  them !  .  .  . 
A  Servant  [within"].    We  have  come  to  wash  the 

door-stone,  the  door  and  the  steps;  openl  open! 
Another  Servant  [within].    There  are  to  be  great 

doings ! 
Third  Servant  [within'].     There  are  to  be  great 

merry-makings !      Open   quickly !   .   .   . 
All  the  Servants.     Open!  open! 
The  Door-keeper.     Wait!  wait!     I  don't  know 

that  I  shall  be  able  to  open  the  door  ...  It 

never     is     opened  .   .  .  Wait    until     daylight 

comes  .  .  . 
First  Servant.    It  is  light  enough  outside ;  I  can  see 

the  sun  through  the  chinks  .  .  . 
49 


5o        PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

The  Door-keeper.  Here  are  the  big  keys  .  .  . 
Oh !  oh !  how  they  grate,  the  bolts  and  the  locks ! 
.  .  .  Help  me !  help  me ! 

All  the  Servants.  We  are  pulling,  we  are  pull- 
ing ... 

Second  Servant.    It  will  not  open  .  .  . 

First  Servant.  Ahl  ah  I  It  is  opening!  It  is 
opening  slowly! 

The  Door-keeper.  How  it  creaks !  It  will  wake 
the  whole  house  .  .  . 

Second  Servant  [appearing  on  the  threshold].  Oh! 
how  light  it  is  already  out  of  doors ! 

First  Servant.    The  sun  is  rising  on  the  sea ! 

The  Door-keeper.  It  is  open  ...  It  is  wide 
open !  .  .  .  [All  the  Maid-servants  appear  on 
the  threshold,  which  they  cross."] 

First  Servant.  I  shall  begin  by  washing  the  door- 
stone. 

Second  Servant.  We  shall  never  be  able  to  clean 
all  this. 

Other  Servants.     Bring  water!  bring  water! 

The  Door-keeper.  Yes,  yes;  pour  water,  pour 
water,  pour  out  all  the  waters  of  the  flood;  you 
will  never  be  able  to  do  it  ... 

SCENE  II.    A  Forest 

\_Melisande  is  discovered  beside  a  spring.    Enter 
Golaud.~\ 

Golaud.  I  shall  never  find  my  way  out  of  the 
forest  again.  Heaven  knows  where  that  beast 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        51 

has  led  me.  I  thought  I  had  wounded  it  to 
death ;  and  here  are  traces  of  blood.  Yet  now  I 
have  lost  sight  of  it;  I  think  I  am  lost  myself — 
and  my  dogs  cannot  find  me.  I  shall  retrace  my 
steps  .  .  . — I  think  I  hear  some  one  crying 
.  .  .  Oh !  oh !  what  is  that  at  the  water's 
edge?  ...  A  little  maid  weeping  at  the  water's 
edge?  [He  coughs.~\  She  seems  not  to  hear 
me.  I  cannot  see  her  face.  [He  draws  nearer 
and  touches  Melisande  on  the  shoulder.~\  Why 
are  you  crying?  [Melisande  starts  and  pre- 
pares to  run  away.~\  Fear  nothing.  You  have 
nothing  to  fear.  Why  are  you  crying  here,  all 
alone? 

Melisande.     Do  not  touch  me !  do  not  touch  me ! 

Golaud.  Fear  nothing  ...  I  shall  not  do  you 
.  .  .  Oh !  you  are  beautiful ! 

Melisande.  Do  not  touch  me !  do  not  touch  me !  or 
I  shall  throw  myself  into  the  water  I  ... 

Golaud.  I  am  not  touching  you  .  .  .  See,  I  shall 
stand  here,  right  against  the  tree.  You  must 
not  be  afraid.  Has  some  one  hurt  you? 

Melisande.  Oh  !  yes !  yes !  yes !  [She  sobs  pro- 
foundly.] 

Golaud.    Who  was  it  that  hurt  you? 

Melisande.    All  of  them !  all  of  them ! 

Golaud.    How  did  they  hurt  you? 

Melisande.    I  will  not  tell !    I  cannot  tell ! 

Golaud.  Come ;  you  must  not  cry  so.  Where  have 
you  come  from? 

Melisande.    I  ran  away !    I  ran  away ! 


52         PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

Golaud.    Yes;  but  from  where  did  you  run  away? 
Melisande.    I  am  lost !  .  .  .  lost !  .  .  .  Oh !  lost 

here  ...  I  don't  belong  here  ...  I  was  not 

born  there  .  .  . 
Golaud.    Where  do  you  come  from?    Where  were 

you  born? 
Metis ande.     Oh!   oh!   far  from  here  .  .  .  far 

...  far  ... 
Golaud.    What  is  it  that  shines  so  at  the  bottom 

of  the  water? 
Melisande.     Where? — Ah!  that  is  the  crown  he 

gave  me.     It  fell  in  crying  .  .  . 
Golaud.    A  crown  ? — Who  gave  you  a  crown  ? — I 

will  try  to  reach  it  ... 
Melisande.    No,  no ;  I  don't  want  it !    I  don't  want 

it!  ...  I  had  sooner  die  .  .   .  die  at  once  .   .  . 
Golaud.    I  could  easily  take  it  out.    The  water  is 

not  very  deep. 
Melisande.     I  don't  want  it!     If  you  take  it  out, 

I  shall  throw  myself  in  instead !   .  .  . 
Golaud.    No,  no;  I  shall  leave  it  there.     It  could 

be  reached  without  trouble,  however.     It  seems 

to  be  a  very  fine  crown. — Is  it  long  since  you 

ran  away? 

Melisande.    Yes,  yes  .   .  .  Who  are  you? 
Golaud.     I  am  the  Prince  Golaud — grandson  of 

Arkel,  the  old  King  of  Allemonde  .  .  . 
Melisande.      Oh!   you   have   got  grey   hairs   al- 
ready .  .  . 
Golaud.    Yes;  a  few,  here,  at  the  temples  .  .  . 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE         53 

Metis ande.  And  your  beard  too  .  .  .  Why  are 
you  looking  at  me  in  that  way? 

Golaud.  I  am  looking  at  your  eyes.  Do  you  never 
close  your  eyes? 

Melisande.    Yes,  yes;  I  close  them  at  night  .  .  . 

Golaud.    Why  do  you  look  so  astonished? 

Melisande.    Are  you  a  giant? 

Golaud.    I  am  a  man  like  other  men  .  .  . 

Melisande.    Why  did  you  come  here  ? 

Gclaud.  I  don't  know  myself.  I  was  hunting  in 
the  forest.  I  was  pursuing  a  boar.  I  missed 
my  way. — You  look  very  young.  How  old  are 
you? 

Melisande.    I  am  beginning  to  feel  cold  .  .  . 

Golaud.    Will  you  come  with  me  ? 

Melisande.    No,  no ;  I  shall  stay  here  .  . 

Golaud.  You  cannot  stay  here  all  alone.  You  can- 
not stay  here  all  night  .  .  .  What  is  your  name  ? 

Melisande.     Melisande. 

Golaud.  You  will  be  afraid,  all  alone.  One  can- 
not tell  what  there  may  be  here  ...  all  night 
...  all  alone  ...  it  is  not  possible.  Meli- 
sande, come,  give  me  your  hand  .  .  . 

Melisande.     Oh !  do  not  touch  me !   .  .   . 

Golaud.  You  must  not  cry  out  ...  I  shall  not 
touch  you  again.  Only  come  with  me.  The 
night  will  be  very  dark  and  very  cold.  Come 
with  me  .  .  . 

Melisande.    Which  way  are  you  going? 

Golaud.  I  don't  know  ...  I  too  am  lost  .  .  . 
[Exeunt.] 


54        PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

SCENE  III.    A  Hall  in  the  Castle 

\_Arkel  and  Genevieve  are  discovered.] 

Genevieve.  This  is  what  he  writes  to  his  brother 
Pelleas: — "One  evening,  I  found  her  all  in  tears 
beside  a  spring,  in  the  forest  where  I  had  lost 
my  way.  I  neither  know  her  age,  nor  who  she 
is,  nor  whence  she  comes,  and  I  dare  not  ques- 
tion her,  for  she  must  have  had  some  great 
fright;  and  whenever  she  is  asked  what  hap- 
pened, she  bursts  out  crying  like  a  child,  and 
sobs  so  profoundly  that  one  is  afraid.  Just  as  I 
came  upon  her  beside  the  spring,  a  golden 
crown  had  slipped  from  her  hair  and  had  fallen 
into  the  depths  of  the  water.  She  was,  more- 
over, dressed  like  a  princess,  although  her  gar- 
ments had  been  torn  in  the  briars.  It  is  now 
six  months  since  I  married  her,  and  I  know  no 
more  than  on  the  day  of  our  meeting.  Mean- 
time, my  dear  Pelleas,  you  whom  I  love  more 
than  a  brother,  although  we  were  not  born  of 
the  same  father;  meantime,  prepare  my  return 
...  I  know  that  my  mother  will  gladly  for- 
give me.  But  I  fear  the  king,  our  venerable 
grandfather;  I  fear  Arkel,  in  spite  of  all  his 
kindness,  for  I  have  disappointed  by  this  strange 
marriage,  all  his  political  schemes,  and  I  fear 
that  Melisande's  beauty,  in  his  wise  eyes,  will 
not  excuse  my  folly.  If  he  consent,  however, 
to  welcome  her  as  he  would  welcome  his  own 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        55 

daughter,  on  the  third  evening  after  the  receipt 
of  this  letter,  light  a  lamp  at  the  top  of  the 
tower  overlooking  the  sea.  I  shall  perceive  it 
from  the  deck  of  our  ship;  if  not,  I  shall  go 
further,  and  never  return  .  .  ."  What  do  you 
say  to  this? 

Arkel.  Nothing.  He  has  done  what  he  probably 
had  to  do.  I  am  very  old,  and  yet  I  have  never 
for  one  instant  seen  clearly  within  myself;  how 
then  would  you  have  me  judge  the  deeds  of 
others?  I  am  not  far  from  the  grave,  and  I  am 
incapable  of  judging  myself  .  .  .  One  is  always 
mistaken  unless  one  shuts  one's  eyes.  What  he 
has  done  may  seem  strange  to  us;  and  that  is 
all.  He  is  more  than  ripe  in  years,  and  he  has 
married  himself,  as  a  boy  might  do,  to  a  little 
girl  whom  he  found  by  a  spring  .  .  .  This  may 
appear  strange  to  us,  because  we  can  only  see 
the  wrong  side  of  destinies  .  .  .  the  wrong 
side  even  of  our  own  .  .  .  He  has  always  fol- 
lowed my  advice  hitherto;  I  thought  to  make 
him  happy  in  sending  him  to  ask  for  the  Princess 
Ursula's  hand  .  .  .  He  never  could  bear  soli- 
tude, and  since  his  wife's  death  he  had  grieved 
to  be  alone;  this  marriage  would  have  put  an 
end  to  long  wars  and  to  ancient  enmities  .  .  . 
He  has  not  willed  it  so.  Let  it  be  as  he  has 
willed.  I  have  never  put  myself  in  the  way  of 
a  destiny;  and  he  knows  his  own  future  better 
than  I  do.  There  is  no  such  thing,  perhaps,  as 
the  occurrence  of  purposeless  events  .  .  . 


56        PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

Genevieve.  He  has  always  been  so  prudent,  so 
grave,  and  so  firm  ...  If  it  were  Pelleas  I 
should  understand  .  .  .  But  he  ...  at  his  age 
.  .  .  Whom  is  he  going  to  bring  into  our  midst? 
A  stranger  picked  up  by  the  road-side  .  .  . 
Since  his  wife's  death  he  lived  but  for  his  son, 
little  Yniold,  and  if  he  was  about  to  remarry,  it 
was  because  you  had  wished  it  ...  And  now 
...  a  little  girl  in  the  forest  .  .  .  He  has  for- 
gotten all  ...  What  are  we  to  do?  [Enter 
Pelleas.] 

Arkel.    Who  is  that  coming  in? 

Genevieve.    It  is  Pelleas.    He  has  been  crying. 

Arkel.  Is  that  you,  Pelleas  ?  Come  a  little  nearer, 
that  I  may  see  you  in  the  light  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  Grandfather,  I  received  another  letter 
at  the  same  time  as  my  brother's ;  a  letter  from 
my  friend  Marcellus.  He  is  dying,  and  he  calls 
for  me.  He  wishes  to  see  me  before  he  dies  .  . . 

Arkel.  You  wish  to  leave  before  your  brother's 
return? — Your  friend  is  perhaps  less  ill  than  he 
supposes  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  His  letter  is  so  sad  that  death  is  visible 
between  the  lines  .  .  .  He  says  that  he  knows 
precisely  the  day  that  death  must  come  .  .  . 
He  says  that  I  can  outstrip  it  if  I  will,  but  that 
there  is  no  time  to  lose.  The  journey  is  very 
long,  and  if  I  await  Golaud's  return  it  may  be 
too  late  .  .  . 

Arkel.  It  would  be  well  to  wait  awhile,  neverthe- 
less. We  cannot  tell  what  this  homecoming  pre- 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        57 

pares  for  us.  And  besides  is  not  your  father 
here,  overhead,  more  dangerously  ill,  perhaps, 
than  your  friend  .  .  .  Are  you  able  to  choose 
between  father  and  friend  .  .  .  ?  [Exit."} 
Genevieve.  Be  sure  to  light  the  lamp  this  very 
evening,  Pelleas  .  .  .  [Exeunt  severally.'} 


SCENE  IV.    Before  the  Castle 
[Enter  Genevieve  and  MeUsande.~\ 

Mellsande.  It  is  dusky  in  the  gardens.  And  what 
big  forests,  what  big  forests  all  around  round 
the  palace !  .  .  . 

Genevieve.  Yes;  it  astonished  me  too  when  I  first 
came  here,  and  it  astonishes  everybody.  There 
are  places  where  one  never  sees  the  sun.  But 
one  so  soon  becomes  accustomed  to  it  all  ... 
It  is  long  ago,  it  is  long  ago  ...  It  is  nearly 
forty  years  since  I  came  to  live  here  .  .  .  Look 
the  other  way,  you  will  have  the  light  of  the 
sea  .  .  . 

Metis ande.    I  hear  a  noise  below  .  .  . 

Genevieve.  Yes ;  some  one  is  coming  up  towards 
us  ...  Ah!  it  is  Pelleas  ...  he  still  seems 
weary  of  having  waited  for  you  so  long  .  .  . 

Mehsande.     He  has  not  seen  us  yet. 

Genevieve.  I  think  he  has  seen  us,  but  he  does 
not  quite  know  what  to  do  ...  Pelleas,  Pel- 
leas,  is  that  you? 


58         PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

Pelleas.  Yes!  ...  I  was  coming  towards  the 
sea  .  .  . 

Genevieve.  So  were  we;  we  were  in  search  of 
brightness.  Here  it  is  a  little  brighter  than 
elsewhere ;  and  yet  the  sea  is  gloomy. 

Pelleas.  We  shall  have  a  storm  to-night.  There 
has  been  one  every  night  for  some  time,  and  yet 
how  calm  it  is  now  .  .  .  One  might  put  forth 
in  ignorance,  never  to  return. 

Melisande.    Something  is  leaving  the  harbour  .  . . 

Pelleas.  It  must  be  a  big  ship  .  .  .  Her  lights 
are  very  high,  we  shall  see  her  presently  when 
she  sails  into  that  band  of  light  .  .  . 

Genevieve.  I  don't  know  that  we  shall  be  able  to 
see  her  .  .  .  there  is  still  a  mist  on  the  sea  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  It  seems  as  if  the  mist  were  slowly  ris- 
ing ... 

Melisande.  Yes ;  I  see  a  little  light  over  there  that 
I  did  not  see  before  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  It  is  a  beacon;  there  are  others  that  we 
cannot  yet  see. 

Melisande.  The  ship  is  in  the  light  .  .  .  She  is 
already  far  away  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  It  is  a  foreign  ship.  She  seems  to  me 
larger  than  any  of  ours  .  .  . 

Melisande.     It  is  the  ship  that  brought  me  here ! 

Pelleas.    She  is  going  at  full  sail  .   .  . 
Melisande.     It  is  the  ship  that  brought  me  here. 

She   has   big   sails  ...  I   know   her  by   her 

sails  . 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        59 

Pelleas.    She  will  have  a  bad  sea  to-night  .  .  . 

Metis ande.  Why  is  she  leaving  to-night?  .  .  . 
One  can  hardly  see  her  now  .  .  .  She  will  be 
wrecked  perhaps  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  Night  is  falling  very  fast  .  .  .    [Silence.] 

Genevieve.  Is  no  one  going  to  speak  any  more? 
.  .  .  Have  you  nothing  more  to  say  to  one  an- 
other? ...  It  is  time  to  go  in.  Pelleas,  show 
the  way  to  Melisande.  I  must  go  and  see  little 
Yniold  a  moment.  [Exit.~\ 

Pelleas.  There  is  nothing  to  be  seen  now  on  the 
sea  .  .  . 

Melisande.     I  see  other  lights. 

Pelleas.  Those  are  the  other  beacons  .  .  .  Do 
you  hear  the  sea?  ...  It  is  the  wind  rising 
.  .  .  Let  us  go  down  this  way.  Will  you  give 
me  your  hand? 

Melisande.     You  see,  my  hands  are  full  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  I  will  hold  you  by  the  arm,  the  path  is 
steep,  and  it  is  very  dark  ...  I  am  perhaps 
going  away  to-morrow  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Oh!  .  .  .  Why  are  you  going? 
[Exeunt.] 


ACT  II 

SCENE  I.    A  Spring  in  the  Park 

[Enter  Pelleas  and  MeUsande.~\ 

Pelleas.  You  don't  know  where  I  have  brought 
you?  I  often  come  and  sit  here  towards  noon, 
when  it  is  too  hot  in  the  gardens.  The  air  is 
stifling  to-day,  even  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

Melisande.    Oh !  the  water  is  clear  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  And  cool  as  winter.  It  is  an  old  deserted 
spring.  It  was  once,  they  say,  a  miraculous 
spring, — it  opened  the  eyes  of  the  blind, — it  is 
still  called  "blindman's  well." 

Melisande.  Does  it  open  the  eyes  of  the  blind 
no  more? 

Pelleas.  Now  that  the  king  himself  is  nearly  blind, 
no  one  comes  to  it  ... 

Melisande.  How  lonely  it  is  here  I  ...  There 
is  no  sound  to  be  heard. 

Pelleas.  There  is  always  a  marvellous  silence 
.  .  .  One  seems  to  hear  the  water  sleep  .  .  . 
Would  you  like  to  sit  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
marble  basin?  There  is  a  lime-tree  which  the 
sun  never  pierces  .  .  . 

Melisande.  I  am  going  to  lie  down  on  the  marble. 
— I  should  like  to  see  the  bottom  of  the  water 


60 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        61 

Pelleas.  It  has  never  yet  been  seen.  It  is  perhaps 
as  deep  as  the  sea.  No  one  knows  whence  this 
water  comes.  Perhaps  from  the  depths  of  the 
earth  .  .  . 

Melisande.  If  something  were  shining  down  at 
the  bottom,  one  might  see  it  perhaps  .  .  . 

Pelleas.     Do  not  lean  so  far  over  .  .  . 

Melisande.    I  want  to  touch  the  water  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  Take  care  not  to  slip  ...  I  will  hold 
you  by  the  hand  .  .  . 

Melisande.  No,  no,  I  want  to  dip  both  hands  in 
...  it  seems  as  if  my  hands  were  ill  to-day  .  . . 

Pelleas.  Oh !  oh !  take  care !  take  care  !  Meli- 
sande !  .  .  .  Melisande !  .  .  .  Oh !  your 

hair!  .  .  . 

Melisande  [drawing  herself  «/>].  I  cannot,  I  can- 
not reach  it  ... 

Pelleas.    Your  hair  dipped  into  the  water  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Yes,  yes;  it  is  longer  than  my  arms 
...  It  is  longer  than  myself  .  .  .  [Silence. ~\ 

Pelleas.  It  was  also  beside  a  spring  that  he  found 
you? 

Melisande.    Yes  .  .  . 

Pelleas.     What  did  he  say  to  you? 

Melisande.    Nothing; — I  don't  remember  .  .  . 

Pelleas.    Was  he  quite  close  to 'you? 

Melisande.    Yes ;  he  wanted  to  kiss  me. 

Pelleas.    And  you  would  not? 

Melisande.     No. 

Pelleas.     Why  not? 


62         PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

Melisande.  Oh  I  oh !  I  have  seen  something  pass 
at  the  bottom  of  the  water  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  Take  care !  take  care  1  You  will  fall  in  I 
What  are  you  playing  with? 

Melisande.    With  the  ring  he  gave  me  ... 

Pelleas.     Take  care;  you  will  lose  it  ... 

Melisande.    No,  no ;  I  am  sure  of  my  hands  .   .  . 

Pelleas.  Do  not  play  thus,  above  such  deep  wa- 
ter ... 

Melisande.    My  hands  are  steady. 

Pelleas.  How  it  shines  in  the  sun !  Don't  throw 
it  up  so  high  towards  the  sky  .  .  . 

Melisande.     Oh!   ... 

Pelleas.     Has  it  fallen? 

Melisande.    It  has  fallen  into  the  water !  .  .  . 

Pelleas.    Where  is  it?  where  is  it?  .  .  . 

Melisande.    I  cannot  see  it  go  down  .  .  . 

Pelleas.    I  think  I  see  it  shine  .  .  . 

Melisande.    My  ring? 

Pelleas.    Yes,  yes;  over  there  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Oh !  oh !  it  is  so  far  from  us !  ... 
no,  no,  that  is  not  it  ...  It  is  lost  .  .  .  lost  .  .  . 
There  is  nothing  left  but  a  big  circle  on  the  water 
.  .  .  What  shall  we  do?  What  shall  we  do 
now?  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  You  must  not  be  so  uneasy  about  a  ring. 
Nevermind  .  .  .  we  shall  perhaps  find  it  again. 
Or  else  we  shall  find  another  .  .  . 

Melisande.  No,  no;  we  shall  never  find  it  again, 
nor  shall  we  ever  find  another  ...  I  thought  I 
held  it  in  my  hands  though  ...  I  had  already 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        63 

closed  my  hands,  and  it  fell  in  spite  of  all  ... 

I  threw  it  too  high,  towards  the  sun  .  .  . 
Pelleas.     Come,  come,  we  can  return  another  day 

.  .  .  come,  it  is  time.     They  might  be  coming 

to  meet  us.     It  was  striking  noon  when  the  ring 

fell. 
Melisande.    What  shall  we  tell  Golaud  if  he  asks 

where  it  is? 
Pelleas.      The  truth,   the   truth,   the   truth  .  .  . 

[Exeunt.] 


SCENE  II.    A  Room  in  the  Castle 

[Golaud  is  discovered  lying  on  his  bed;  Melisande 
is  at  the  bedside.~\ 

Golaud.  Ah !  ah !  all  is  going  well,  it  will  be  no 
grave  matter.  But  I  cannot  explain  how  it  came 
about.  I  was  hunting  quietly  in  the  forest.  My 
horse  bolted  all  of  a  sudden,  for  no  reason. 
Had  he  seen  anything  unusual?  ...  I  had  just 
counted  the  twelve  strokes  of  noon.  At  the 
twelfth  stroke,  he  suddenly  took  fright  and  ran 
like  one  blind  and  mad,  against  a  tree.  I  heard 
nothing  more.  Nor  do  I  know  what  happened. 
I  fell,  and  he  must  have  fallen  upon  me.  I 
thought  the  whole  forest  lay  on  my  chest;  I 
thought  my  heart  was  crushed.  But  my  heart 
is  tough.  It  appears  to  be  no  grave  matter  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Would  you  like  to  drink  a  little 
water? 


64        PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

Golaud.    Thank  you,  thank  you ;  I  am  not  thirsty. 

Melisande.  Would  you  like  another  pillow?  .  .  . 
There  is  a  little  bloodstain  on  this  one. 

Golaud.  No,  no;  it  is  not  worth  while.  I  bled 
at  the  mouth  just  now.  I  shall  perhaps  do  so 
again  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Are  you  quite  sure?  .  .  .  You  are 
not  in  too  great  pain? 

Golaud.  No,  no,  I  have  been  through  more  than 
this.  I  am  tempered  to  blood  and  steel  .  .  . 
These  are  not  the  little  bones  of  a  child;  you 
must  not  be  anxious  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Close  your  eyes  and  try  to  sleep.  I 
shall  stay  here  all  night. 

Golaud.  No,  no;  I  will  not  have  you  tire  your- 
self thus.  I  shall  want  nothing;  I  shall  sleep 
like  a  child  .  .  .  What  is  it,  Melisande?  Why 
are  you  crying  all  of  a  sudden  ?  .  .  . 

Melisande  [bursting  into  tears~\.  I  am  ...  I 
am  ill  too. 

Golaud.  You  are  ill?  ...  What  ails  you,  what 
ails  you,  Melisande?  .  .  . 

Melisande.  I  don't  know  ...  I  feel  ill  here 
...  I  had  rather  tell  it  you  to-day;  my  lord, 
my  lord,  I  am  not  happy  here  .  .  . 

Golaud.     Why,  what  has  happened,  Melisande? 
What  is  the  matter?  ...  I  who  had  no  suspi- 
cion .  .  .  Why,    what    has    happened?  .  .  . 
Has  any  one  done  you  wrong?  .  .  .  Can  any 
one  have  hurt  you? 

Melisande.    No,  no ;  no  one  has  done  me  the  least 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        65 

wrong  ...  It  is  not  that  ...  It  is  not  that 
.  .  .  But  I  cannot  live  here  any  longer.  I 
don't  know  why  ...  I  should  like  to  go  away, 
to  go  away !  .  .  .  I  shall  die  if  I  am  left  here 

Golaud.  But  something  must  have  happened? 
You  must  be  hiding  something  from  me?  .  .  . 
Tell  me  the  whole  truth,  Melisande  ...  Is  it 
the  king?  .  .  .  Is  it  my  mother?  .  .  .  Is  it  Pel- 
leas?  .  .  . 

Melisande.  No,  no;  it  is  not  Pelleas.  It  is  no- 
body .  .  .  You  cannot  understand  me  .  .  . 

Golaud.  Why  should  I  not  understand?  ...  If 
you  tell  me  nothing,  what  would  you  have  me 
do?  ...  Tell  me  all,  and  I  shall  understand 
all. 

Melisande.  I  don't  myself  know  what  it  is  ... 
I  don't  rightly  know  what  it  is  ...  If  I  could  tell 
you,  I  would  ...  It  is  something  that  is  stronger 
than  myself  .  .  . 

Golaud.  Come;  be  reasonable,  Melisande. — 
What  would  you  have  me  do? — You  are  no 
longer  a  child. — Is  it  me  that  you  wish  to  leave? 

Melisande.  Oh!  no,  no;  it  is  not  that  ...  I 
should  like  to  go  away  with  you  .  .  .  It  is  here 
that  I  can  no  longer  live  ...  I  feel  that  I 
shall  not  live  much  longer  .  .  . 

Golaud.  But  there  must  be  some  reason,  never- 
theless. They  will  think  you  mad.  They  will 
credit  you  with  childish  dreams. — Come,  is  it 


66         PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

Pelleas,  by  any  chance? — I  think  he  does  not 
often  speak  to  you  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Yes,  yes;  he  speaks  to  me  at  times. 
He  does  not  like  me,  I  think;  I  have  seen  it  in 
his  eyes  .  .  .  But  he  speaks  whenever  he  meets 
me  .  .  . 

Golaud.  You  must  not  take  it  amiss.  He  has 
always  been  so.  He  is  rather  strange.  And 
just  now  he  is  sad;  he  is  thinking  of  his  friend, 
Marcellus,  who  lies  at  the  point  of  death,  and 
to  whom  he  may  not  go  ...  He  will  change, 
he  will  change,  you  will  see;  he  is  young  .  .  . 

Melisande.  But  it  is  not  that  ...  It  is  not 
that  .  .  . 

Golaud.  What  is  it  then? — Can  you  not  accus- 
tom yourself  to  the  life  we  lead  here?  Is  it  too 
dismal  for  you  here  ? — It  is  true  that  the  castle 
is  very  old  and  very  gloomy  .  .  .  very  cold 
and  very  deep.  And  all  those  that  live  in  it 
are  far  in  years.  And  the  country  may  seem  dis- 
mal too  with  all  its  ancient  lightless  forests. 
But  one  can  make  all  this  more  cheerful  if  one 
pleases.  And  then,  joy,  joy,  one  cannot  touch 
joy  every  day;  one  must  take  things  as  they 
are.  Yet  tell  me  of  something;  no  matter  what ; 
I  will  do  anything  you  wish  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Yes,  yes;  it  is  true  .  .  .  one  never 
sees  the  sky  here.  I  saw  it  for  the  first  time 
this  morning  .  .  . 

Golaud.  Is  that  what  makes  you  weep,  my  poor 
Melisande? — Is  it  nothing  but  that? — You  shed 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        67 

tears  because  you  cannot  see  the  sky? — Come, 
come,  you  are  no  longer  of  an  age  when  one 
may  allow  oneself  to  cry  about  such  things  .  .  . 
And  then,  is  summer  not  here?  You  will  soon 
see  the  sky  every  day. — And  then  next  year 
.  .  .  Come,  give  me  your  hand;  give  me  both 
your  little  hands.  [He  takes  her  hands.]  Oh ! 
oh!  these  little  hands  that  I  could  crush  like 
flowers  .  .  . — Why,  where  is  the  ring  I  gave 
you? 

Melisande.    The  ring? 

Golaud.     Yes;  our  wedding-ring,  where  is  it? 

Melisande.     I  think  ...  I  think  it  fell  .  .  . 

Golaud.  Fell?— Where  did  it  fall?— You  have 
not  lost  it? 

Melisande.  No,  no;  it  fell  ...  it  must  have 
fallen  .  .  .  but  I  know  where  it  is  ... 

Golaud.    Where  is  it? 

Melisande.  You  know  .  .  .  you  know  .  .  .  the 
cave  by  the  sea  ?  .  .  . 

Golaud.    Yes. 

Melisande.  Well,  it  was  there  ...  It  must  have 
been  there  .  .  .  Yes,  yes;  I  remember  ...  I 
went  there  this  morning  to  pick  up  shells  for 
little  Yniold  .  .  .  There  are  lovely  ones  there 
...  It  slipped  from  my  finger  .  .  .  then  the 
sea  came  up ;  and  I  had  to  leave  before  I  could 
find  it. 

Golaud.    Are  you  sure  it  is  there  ? 

Melisande.     Yes,  yes;  quite  sure  ...  I   felt  it 


68         PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

slip  .  .  .  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  sound  of 
the  waves  .  .  . 

Golaud.    You  must  go  and  fetch  it  at  once. 

Melisande.    I  must  go  and  fetch  it  at  once? 

Golaud.    Yes. 

Melisande.    Now? — at  once? — in  the  dark? 

Golaud.  Now,  at  once,  in  the  dark.  You  must 
go  and  fetch  it  at  once.  I  would  rather  have 
lost  all  I  possess  than  have  lost  that  ring.  You 
don't  know  what  it  is.  You  don't  know  where  it 
comes  from.  The  sea  will  be  very  high  to-night. 
The  sea  will  rise  and  take  it  before  you  .  .  . 
make  haste.  You  must  go  and  fetch  it  at 
once  .  .  . 

Melisande.    I  dare  not  .  .  .  I  dare  not  go  alone 

Golaud.  Go,  go,  no  matter  with  whom.  But  you 
must  go  at  once,  do  you  hear? — Make  haste; 
ask  Pelleas  to  go  with  you. 

Melisande.  Pelleas?— With  Pelleas?— But  Pel- 
leas  will  not  want  to  ... 

Golaud.  Pelleas  will  do  all  that  you  ask  him.  I 
know  Pelleas  better  than  you  do.  Go,  go,  make 
haste.  I  shall  not  sleep  before  I  have  the  ring. 

Melisande.  Oh !  oh  !  I  am  not  happy !  .  .  .  I  am 
not  happy!  .  .  .  [Exit  weeping, ,] 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        69 

SCENE  III.     Before  a  Cave 
[Enter  Pelleas  and  Melisande."] 

Pelleas  [speaking  in  great  agitation].  Yes,  this 
is  the  spot;  we  have  reached  it.  It  is  so  dark 
that  the  entrance  of  the  cave  is  indistinguishable 
from  the  rest  of  night  .  .  .  There  are  no  stars 
that  way.  Let  us  wait  until  the  moon  has  rent 
that  great  cloud;  it  will  illumine  the  whole  cave, 
and  then  we  shall  be  able  to  enter  without  dan- 
ger. There  are  some  dangerous  points,  and  the 
path  is  very  narrow,  between  two  lakes  which 
have  never  yet  been  sounded.  I  did  not  think 
to  bring  a  torch  or  a  lantern,  but  I  fancy  that  the 
light  of  the  sky  will  suffice. — You  have  never 
yet  ventured  into  this  cave? 

Melisande.    No. 

Pelleas.  Come  in,  come  .  .  .  You  must  be  able 
to  describe  the  spot  where  you  lost  the  ring,  in 
case  he  questions  you  ...  It  is  a  very  large 
cave  and  very  beautiful.  There  are  stalactites 
that  resemble  plants  and  men.  It  is  full  of  blue 
shades.  It  has  never  been  explored  to  the  very 
end.  There  are,  it  seems,  great  treasures  hid- 
den there.  You  will  see  the  remains  of  ancient 
shipwrecks.  But  one  must  not  attempt  to  go 
far  without  a  guide.  There  have  been  some 
that  never  came  back.  I  myself  do  not  dare  go 
too  far  in.  We  will  stop  the  moment  we  no 


70         PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

longer  see  the  light  of  the  waves  or  of  the  sky. 
If  one  lights  a  little  light  in  there  it  seems  as 
if  the  roof  were  covered  with  stars,  like  the 
sky.  They  say  it  is  because  there  are  fragments 
of  crystal  and  salt  that  shine  in  the  rock. — Look, 
look,  I  think  the  sky  is  going  to  clear  .  .  .  Give 
me  your  hand;  don't  tremble,  don't  tremble  so. 
There  is  no  danger;  we  will  stop  the  moment 
we  can  no  longer  perceive  the  light  of  the  sea 
...  Is  it  the  sound  of  the  cave  that  frightens 
you?  It  is  the  sound  of  night,  the  sound  of  si- 
lence .  .  .  Do  you  hear  the  sea  behind  us? — It 
does  not  seem  happy  to-night  .  .  .  Ah !  here  is 
light!  .  .  .  [The  moon  broadly  illumines 
the  entrance  and  a  'part  of  the  cave;  one  beholds, 
at  a  certain  depth,  three  white-haired  old  beg- 
gars, seated  side  by  side,  and  supporting  one 
another  in  sleep,  against  a  ledge  of  rock.~\ 

Melisande.    Ah ! 

Pelleas.     What  is  it? 

Melisande.  There  are  .  .  .  [She  points  to  the 
three  beggarsJ\ 

Pelleas.    Yes,  yes ;  I  too  have  seen  them  .   .  . 

Melisande.    Let  us  go !   .   .   .  Let  us  go !   .   .  . 

Pelleas.  Yes  .  .  .  They  are  three  old  beggars 
that  have  fallen  asleep  .  .  .  There  is  a  famine 
in  the  land  .  .  .  Why  have  they  come  here  to 
sleep?  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Let  us  go !  ...  Come,  come  .  .  . 
Let  us  go !  .  .  . 

Pelleas.    Take  care ;  don't  speak  so  loud  .  .  .  We 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        71 

must  not  wake  them  .   .  .  they  are  still  fast 

asleep  .   .  .  Come. 
Melisande.     Leave  me,  leave  me;  I  had  rather 

walk  alone  .  .   . 
Pelleas.     We  will  come  again  another  day  .  .  . 

[Exeunt.] 


SCENE  IV.    A  Room  in  the  Castle 
[Arkel  and  Pelleas  are  discovered."] 

Arkel.  You  see  that  everything  conspires  to  hold 
you  here  at  this  moment,  and  that  everything 
forbids  this  bootless  journey.  The  truth  as  to 
your  father's  condition  has  been  kept  from  you 
hitherto;  but  it  is  perhaps  hopeless;  and  that 
alone  should  suffice  to  hold  you  here.  But  there 
are  so  many  other  reasons  .  .  .  And  it  is  not 
at  a  time  when  our  enemies  are  roused,  when 
our  people  are  dying  of  hunger  and  murmuring 
on  all  sides,  that  you  have  the  right  to  desert 
us.  And  why  this  journey?  Marcellus  is  dead ; 
and  life  has  heavier  duties  than  the  visiting  of 
graves.  You  are  weary,  you  say,  of  your  inac- 
tive life;  but  activity  and  duty  are  not  to  be 
found  by  the  roadside.  One  must  await  them 
on  the  threshold,  ready  to  bid  them  enter  at  the 
moment  of  passing;  and  they  pass  every  day. 
You  have  never  seen  them?  I  myself  am  al- 
most blind,  and  yet  I  will  teach  you  to  see;  I 


72         PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

will  show  them  to  you,  the  day  that  you  wish 
to  beckon  them  in.  Still,  listen  to  me:  if  you 
think  it  is  from  the  depths  of  your  life  that  this 
journey  is  exacted,  I  shall  not  forbid  you  to 
undertake  it ;  for  you  must  know,  better  than  I, 
what  events  you  ought  to  offer  to  your  being  and 
to  your  destiny.  I  shall  only  ask  you  to  wait 
until  we  know  what  is  about  to  happen  .  .  . 

Pelleas.    How  long  shall  I  have  to  wait? 

Arkel.    A  few  weeks;  maybe  a  few  days  .  .  . 

Pelleas.    I  will  wait  . 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I.      A  Room  in  the  Castle 

[Pelleas  and  Melisande  are  discovered.  Meli- 
sande,  with  a  distaff ,  is  spinning  at  the  further 
end  of  the  room.~\ 

Pelleas.  Yniold  has  not  come  back;  where  has  he 
gone? 

Melisande.  He  heard  something  in  the  passage; 
he  went  to  see  what  it  was. 

Pelleas.     Melisande  .  .  . 

Melisande.    What  is  it? 

Pelleas.    .  .  .   Can  you  still  see  to  work?  .  .  . 

Melisande.     I  work  just  as  well  in  the  dark  .   .  . 

Pelleas.  I  think  that  every  one  in  the  castle  is 
already  fast  asleep.  Golaud  has  not  come  home 
from  hunting.  It  is  late,  however  .  .  .  Does 
he  still  suffer  from  his  fall? 

Melisande.    He  has  said  that  he  suffers  no  more. 

Pelleas.  He  ought  to  be  more  prudent;  his  limbs 
are  no  longer  supple  as  at  twenty  ...  I  can 
see  stars  out  of  window,  and  the  light  of  the 
moon  on  the  trees.  It  is  late ;  he  will  not  come 
back  now.  [A  knock  at  the  door.~]  Who  is 
there?  .  .  .  Come  in!  ...  [Little  Yniold 
opens  the  door  and  enters  the  room.~\  Was  it 
73 


74         PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

you  that  knocked  so  ?  ...  That  is  not  the  way 
to  knock  at  doors.  It  was  just  as  if  some  mis- 
fortune had  happened;  look,  you  have  fright- 
ened your  little  mother. 

Little  Yniold.    I  only  knocked  quite  a  little. 

Pelleas.  It  is  late;  father  will  not  be  coming 
home  this  evening;  it  is  time  to  go  to  bed. 

Little  Yniold.  I  shall  not  go  to  bed  before  you 
do. 

Pelleas.  What?  .  .  .  What  are  you  saying 
there  ? 

Little  Yniold.  I  said  .  .  .  not  before  you  .  .  . 
not  before  you  .  .  .  \He  bursts  into  tears  and 
takes  refuge  beside  Melisande.~\ 

Melisande.  What  is  it,  Yniold?  .  .  .  What  is  it? 
.  .  .  why  are  you  crying  all  of  a  sudden? 

Yniold  \_sobbing].  Because  .  .  .  Oh!  oh!  be- 
cause .  .  . 

Melisande.    Why?  .  .  .  Why?  .  .   .  tell  me  ... 

Yniold.  Little  mother  .  .  .  little  mother  .  .  . 
you  are  going  away  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Why,  what  possesses  you,  Yniold? 
...  I  have  never  dreamed  of  going  away  .  .  . 

Yniold.  Yes,  yes;  father  is  gone  .  .  .  father  has 
not  come  back,  and  now  you  are  going  too  .  .  . 
I  have  seen  it  ...  I  have  seen  it  ... 

Melisande.  But  there  has  been  no  question  of 
such  a  thing,  Yniold  ...  By  what  could  you 
see  that  I  was  going?  .  .  . 

Yniold.  I  saw  it  ...  I  saw  it  ...  You  said 
things  to  my  uncle  that  I  could  not  hear  .  .  . 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        75 

Pelleas.  He  is  sleepy  ...  he  has  been  dreaming 
.  .  .  Come  here,  Yniold;  are  you  asleep  al- 
ready? .  .  .  Come  and  look  out  of  window; 
the  swans  are  fighting  the  dogs  .  .  . 

Yniold  \_at  the  window'].  Oh!  oh  I  They  are 
chasing  them,  the  dogs  1  .  .  .  They  are  chasing 
them!  ...  Oh!  oh!  the  water!  ...  the 
wings !  .  .  .  the  wings !  .  .  .  They  are  fright- 
ened .  .  . 

Pelleas  [going  back  to  Melisande].  He  is  sleepy; 
he  is  struggling  against  sleep,  and  his  eyes  are 
closing  .  .  . 

Melisande  [singing  in  an  undertone  as  she  spins]  : 
Saint  Daniel  and  Saint  Michael,  O  !   .   .  . 
Saint  Michael  and  Saint  Raphael  too  .   .  . 

Yniold  \_at  the  window].    Oh!  oh!  mother  dear! 

Melisande  [rising  abruptly].  What  is  it,  Yniold? 
.  .  .  What  is  it?  ... 

Yniold.  I  have  seen  something  out  of  the  window ! 
.  .  .  [Pelleas  and  Melisande  run  to  the  win- 
dow.] 

Pelleas.  What  is  there  at  the  window?  .  .  . 
What  is  it  that  you  saw?  .  .  . 

Yniold.    Oh!  oh!     I  saw  something!  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  But  there  is  nothing.  I  can  see  noth- 
ing ... 

Melisande.    Nor  I. 

Pelleas.  Where  did  you  see  something?  In  what 
direction?  . 


76        PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

Yniold.  Over  there,  over  there !  ...  It  has  gone 
now. 

Pelleas.  He  no  longer  knows  what  he  is  saying. 
He  must  have  seen  the  moonshine  on  the  forest. 
There  are  often  strange  reflections  ...  or  else 
something  may  have  passed  along  the  road  .  .  . 
or  in  his  sleep.  For  look,  look,  I  believe  he  is 
going  to  sleep  for  good  .  .  . 

Yniold  [at  the  window].  Father  is  there!  father 
is  there ! 

Pelleas  [going  to  the  window].  He  is  right;  Go- 
laud  has  just  entered  the  courtyard. 

Yniold.  Father  dear!  .  .  .  father  dear!  ...  I 
will  go  and  meet  him!  .  .  .  [Exit  running. — 
Silence.] 

Pelleas.  They  are  coming  upstairs  .  .  .  [Enter 
Golaud,  and  little  Yniold  bearing  a  lamp.] 

Golaud.    Are  you  still  waiting  in  the  dark? 

Yniold.  I  have  brought  a  light,  mother,  a  big 
light !  [He  lifts  up  the  lamp  and  looks  at  Meli- 
sande.]  Have  you  been  crying,  mother  dear? 
.  .  .  Have  you  been  crying?  .  .  .  [He 
lifts  the  lamp  towards  Pelleas,  and  looks 
at  him  also.]  You  too,  you  too,  have 
you  been  crying?  .  .  .  Father  dear,  look, 
father  dear;  they  have  been  crying,  both  of 
them  .  .  . 

Golaud.  Do  not  hold  the  light  thus  to  their 
eyes  .  .  . 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        77 

SCENE  II.     One  of  the  castle  towers.     A  sentry 
path  runs  below  one  of  the  tower  windows. 

Melisande    [combing  her  hair  at  the  window}. 

Thirty  years  I've  sought,  my  sisters, 

Far  his  hiding-place, 
Thirty  years  I've  walked,  my  sisters, 

But  have  found  no  trace  .  .  . 

Thirty  years  I've  walked,  my  sisters, 

And  my  feet  are  worn, 
He  was  all  about,  my  sisters, 

Yet  he  was  unborn  .  .  . 

Sad  the  hour  grows,  my  sisters, 

Bare  my  feet  again, 
For  the  evening  dies,  my  sisters, 

And  my  soul's  in  pain  .  .  . 

You  are  now  sixteen,  my  sisters, 

Time  it  is  for  you, 
Take  my  staff  away,  my  sisters, 

Go  and  seek  him  too  .  .  . 

[Enter  Pelleas  by  the  sentry  path.] 
Pelleas.    Hola  !     Hola !  ho !  .  .  . 
Melisande.     Who  is  there? 
Pelleas.     I,  I,  and  II  ...  What  are  you  doing 

there  at  the  window,  singing  like  a  bird  that  is 

not  of  this  land? 


7 8         PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

Melisande.    I  am  doing  my  hair  for  the  night  .   .  . 
Pelleas.     Is  that  what  I  see  on  the  wall?  ...  I 

thought  you  had  a  light  by  you  .  .  . 
Melisande.    I  opened  the  window ;  it  is  too  hot  in 

the  tower  ...  It  is  fine  to-night  .  .  . 
Pelleas.     There  are  innumerable  stars:  I   have 

never  seen  so  many  as  to-night  .  .  .  but  the 

moon  is  still  on  the  sea  .  .  .   Do  not  stay  in 

the  dark,  Melisande,  lean  over  a  little,  that  I 

may  see  your  hair  all  loose  .  .  . 
Melisande.    I  am  hideous  so  ...    [She  leans  out 

of  window.] 
Pelleas.     Oh!  oh!  Melisande!   ...  oh!  you  are 

beautiful!  .  .  .  you     are    beautiful    so!  .  .  . 

lean  over!  .  .  .  lean  over!  ...  let  me  come 

nearer  to  you  .  .  . 
Melisande.    I  cannot  come  any  nearer  to  you  .  .  . 

I  am  leaning  over  as  far  as  I  can  .  .  . 
Pelleas.     I  cannot  climb  any  higher  .  .  .  give  me 

at  least  your  hand  this  evening  .  .  .  before  I 

go  away  ...  I  leave  to-morrow  .  .  . 
Melisande.    No,  no,  no  ... 
Pelleas.     Yes,  yes,  yes;  I  am  going,  I  am  going 

to-morrow  .   .  .  give  me  your  hand,  your  hand, 

your  little  hand  to  my  lips  .  .  . 
Melisande.     I  shall  not  give  you  my  hand  if  you 

go  away  .  .  . 

Pelleas.     Give,  give,  give  .  .  . 
Melisande.     Then  you  will  not  go? 
Pelleas.     I  will  wait,  I  will  wait  .   .  . 
Melisande.     I  see  a  rose  in  the  dark  . 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        79 

Pelleas.  Where?  ...  I  can  only  see  the  branches 
of  the  willow  that  rise  above  the  wall  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Lower,  lower  in  the  garden;  over 
there,  right  in  the  dusky  green  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  It  is  not  a  rose  ...  I  shall  go  and  look 
presently,  but  give  me  your  hand  first;  first  your 
hand  .  .  . 

Melisande.  There,  there;  ...  I  cannot  bend 
down  any  lower  .  .  . 

Pelleas.    My  lips  cannot  reach  your  hand  .  .  . 

Melisande.  I  cannot  bend  down  any  lower  .  .  . 
I  am  on  the  point  of  falling  .  .  .  Oh !  oh  1  my 
hair  is  falling  down  the  tower !  .  .  .  [Her  hair 
turns  over  suddenly  as  she  bends,  and  inundates 
Pelleas.'] 

Pelleas.  Oh!  oh!  what  is  this?  .  .  .  Your  hair, 
your  hair  is  coming  down  to  me !  .  .  .  All  your 
hair,  Melisande,  all  your  hair  has  fallen  down 
the  tower!  ...  I  hold  it  in  my  hands,  I  hold 
it  in  my  mouth  ...  I  hold  it  in  my  arms,  I 
wind  it  about  my  neck  ...  I  shall  not  open  my 
hands  again  this  night  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Leave  me !  leave  me !  .  .  .  You  will 
make  me  fall!  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  No,  no,  no  ...  I  never  saw  hair  like 
yours,  Melisande!  .  .  .  See,  see,  see;  it  comes 
from  so  high,  and  yet  its  floods  reach  my  heart 
.  .  .  They  reach  my  knees !  .  .  .  And  it  is  soft, 
it  is  as  soft  as  if  it  had  fallen  from  heaven! 
...  I  can  no  longer  see  heaven  for  your  hair. 
Do  you  see?  do  you  see?  .  .  .  My  two  hands 


8o        PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

cannot  hold  it;  there  are  even  some  locks  on 
the  willow  branches  .  .  .  They  live,  like  birds, 
in  my  hands  .  .  .  and  they  love  me,  they  love 
me  better  than  you !  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Leave  me,  leave  me  .  .  .  Some  one 
might  pass  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  No,  no,  no;  I  shall  not  release  you  to- 
night .  .  .  You  are  my  prisoner  for  this  night; 
all  night,  all  night  .  .  . 

Melisande.    Pelleas!    Pelleas!  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  I  am  tying  them,  tying  them  to  the 
branches  of  the  willow  .  .  .  you  shall  never  go 
from  here  again  .  .  .  You  shall  never  go 
from  here  again  .  .  .  Look,  look,  I  am  kissing 
your  hair  .  .  .  All  pain  has  left  me  here  in  the 
midst  of  your  hair  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  my  kisses 
creep  along  your  hair?  .  .  .  They  are  climbing 
all  the  length  of  your  hair  .  .  .  Every  single 
hair  must  bring  you  one  .  .  .  You  see,  you  see, 
I  can  open  my  hands  .  .  .  My  hands  are  free, 
and  yet  you  cannot  leave  me  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Oh !  oh !  you  have  hurt  me  .  .  .  [A 
flight  of  doves  leave  the  tower  and  flutter  about 
them  in  the  night.] — What  has  happened,  Pel- 
leas? — What  is  flying  here  all  about  me? 

Pelleas.  The  doves  are  leaving  the  tower  ...  I 
frightened  them;  they  are  flying  away  .  .  . 

Melisande.  They  are  my  doves,  Pelleas. — Let  us 
go,  leave  me ;  they  might  never  come  back  .  .  . 

Pelleas.     Why  should  they  not  come  back? 

Melisande.    They  will  lose  themselves  in  the  dark 


8i 

.  .  .  Leave  me,  let  me  lift  up  my  head  .  ."  .  I 
hear  the  sound  of  footsteps  .  .  .  Leave  me ! — 
itisGolaud!  .  .  .  I  believe  it  is  Golaud!  .  .  . 
He  has  heard  us  ... 

^Pelleas.  Wait !  wait !  .  .  .  Your  locks  are  twisted 
round  the  branches  .  .  .  They  caught  there  in 
the  dark  .  .  .  Wait!  wait!  .  .  .  The  night  is 
dark  .  .  .  [Enter  Golaud  by  the  sentry  path.] 

Golaud.     What  are  you  doing  here? 

Pelleas.    What  am  I  doing  here?  ...  I  ... 

Golaud.  You  are  children  .  .  .  Melisande,  don't 
lean  so  far  out  of  the  window;  you  will  fall  .  .  . 
Don't  you  know  that  it  is  late? — It  is  close  upon 
midnight. — Don't  play  thus  in  the  dark.  You 
are  children  .  .  .  [Laughing  nervously.]  What 
children !  .  .  .  What  children !  .  .  .  [Exit, 
with  Pelleas.] 


SCENE  III.     The  Castle  Faults 
[Enter  Golaud  and  Pelleas. ] 

Golaud.     Take  care;  this  way. — Have  you  never 

ventured  down  into  these  vaults? 
Pelleas.     Yes,  once ;  but  it  was  long  ago  .   .   . 
Golaud.    They  are  prodigiously  large;  a  series  of 

enormous  caves  that  lead,  heaven  knows  where. 

The  whole  castle   is  built  above  these  caves. 

Do  you  smell  what  a  deathly  odour  reigns  here? 

— That  is  what  I  wanted  to  show  you.     I  have 


82        PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

an  idea  that  it  rises  from  the  little  underground 
lake  you  will  see  presently.  Take  care;  walk 
before  me,  in  the  rays  of  my  lantern.  I  will 
tell  you  when  we  are  there.  [They  continue  to 
walk  in  silence .]  Hey,  hey!  Pelleas!  stop!  stop! 
[He  seizes  him  by  the  armJ\  For  God's  sake! 
.  .  .  But  can't  you  see  ? — Another  step  and  you 
were  in  the  abyss !  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  I  could  see  nothing!  .  .  .  The  lantern 
was  shedding  no  light  my  way  .  .  . 

Golaud.  I  missed  my  footing  .  .  .  but  if  I  had 
not  held  you  by  the  arm  .  .  .  Well,  here  is  the 
stagnant  water  of  which  I  spoke  .  .  .  Do  you 
smell  the  stench  of  death  that  rises  from  it? — 
Come  to  the  edge  of  that  overhanging  rock  and 
lean  over  a  little.  It  will  rise  and  strike  you 
in  the  face. 

Pelleas.  I  smell  it  already  .  .  .  one  would  say 
it  was  the  smell  of  tombs. 

Golaud.  Further,  further  ...  It  is  this  smell 
that  on  certain  days  infects  the  castle.  The 
King  will  not  believe  that  it  comes  from  here. 
— It  would  be  well  to  wall  up  the  cavern  that 
contains  this  stagnant  water.  It  is  time,  more- 
over, that  these  vaults  should  be  examined. 
Have  you  noticed  the  crevices  in  the  walls  and 
in  the  pillars  of  the  vaults?  There  is  here  some 
hidden,  unsuspected  work;  and  the  whole  castle 
will  be  engulfed  one  night  if  no  care  be  taken. 
But  what  is  to  be  done?  Nobody  likes  coming 
down  here  .  .  .  There  are  strange  crevices  in 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        83 

many  of  the  walls  .  .  .  Oh!  here  ...  do  you 
smell  the  smell  of  death  that  rises? 

Pelleas.  Yes;  there  is  a  smell  of  death  creeping 
up  around  us  ... 

Golaud.  Lean  over;  don't  be  afraid  ...  I  will 
hold  you  .  .  .  give  me  .  .  .  no,  no,  not  your 
hand  ...  it  might  slip  .  .  .  your  arm,  your 
arm  .  .  .  Do  you  see  the  abyss?  [Uneasily.] 
—Pelleas?  Pelleas? 

Pelleas.  Yes;  I  think  I  see  down  to  the  bottom 
of  the  abyss  .  .  .  Is  it  the  light  that  quivers  so? 
.  .  .  You  .  .  .  [He  stands  erect,  turns  round, 
and  looks  at  Golaud.] 

Golaud  [in  trembling  voice].  Yes;  it  is  the  lan- 
tern .  .  .  Look,  I  was  waving  it  about  to  light 
up  the  sides  .  .  . 

Pelleas.    I  am  stifling  here  ...  let  us  go  ... 

Golaud.    Yes;  let  us  go  .  .  .   [Exeunt  in  silence.] 


SCENE  IV.     A   Terrace  at  tine  entrance  of  the 
Faults. 

[Enter  Golaud  and  Pelleas.] 

Pelleas.  Ah !  I  breathe  at  last !  .  .  .  I  thought, 
at  one  moment,  that  I  was  going  to  faint  away 
in  those  enormous  caves.  I  was  on  the  point 
of  falling  .  .  .  The  air  is  humid  there  and 
heavy  as  a  dew  of  lead,  and  the  darkness  is  thick 
as  envenomed  pulp  .  .  .  And  now,  all  the  air  of 


84 

all  the  sea !  .  .  .  There  is  a  fresh  breeze,  look; 
fresh  as  a  new-opened  leaf,  on  the  little  green 
waves  .  .  .  Why !  They  have  just  been  water- 
ing the  flowers  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace,  and 
the  scent  of  the  foliage  and  of  the  wet  roses  rises 
to  us  here  ...  It  must  be  close  upon  midday, 
the  flowers  are  already  in  the  shadow  of  the 
tower  ...  It  is  midday;  I  hear  the  bells  ring- 
ing, and  the  children  are  going  down  to  the 
beach  to  bathe  ...  I  did  not  know  we  had 
stayed  so  long  in  those  caves  .  .  . 

Golaud.    We  went  down  towards  eleven  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  Earlier;  it  must  have  been  earlier;  I 
heard  half-past  ten  strike. 

Golaud.    Half-past  ten  or  a  quarter  to  eleven  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  They  have  opened  all  the  castle  windows. 
It  will  be  unusually  hot  this  afternoon  .  .  . 
Why,  there  are  our  mother  and  Melisande  at 
one  of  the  windows  of  the  tower  .  .  . 

Golaud.  Yes,  they  have  taken  shelter  on  the  shady 
side. — Concerning  Melisande,  I  heard  what 
passed  between  you,  and  all  that  was  said  yes- 
terday evening.  I  know  quite  well  that  it  was 
child's  play,  but  it  must  not  be  repeated.  Meli- 
sande is  very  young  and  very  impressionable; 
and  we  must  handle  her  all  the  more  gently  as 
she  may  be  about  to  become  a  mother  .  .  .  She 
is  very  frail,  hardly  woman  yet;  and  the  least 
emotion  might  bring  about  misfortune.  It  is 
not  the  first  time  I  have  had  cause  to  think  that 
there  might  be  something  between  you  .  .  .  you 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        85 

are  older  than  she;  it  is  sufficient  to  have  told 
you  .  .  .  Avoid  her  as  much  as  possible;  yet 
not  markedly  at  all  events,  not  markedly  .  .  . — 
What  is  it  that  I  see  there  on  the  road,  towards 
the  forest?  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  Those  are  flocks  that  are  being  led  to 
town  .  .  . 

Golaud.  They  are  crying  like  lost  children;  one 
would  say  that  they  already  smelt  the  butcher. 
It  will  be  time  to  go  in  to  dinner. — What  a  love- 
ly day!  What  an  admirable  day  for  the  har- 
vest! .  .  .  [Exeunt.~\ 


SCENE  V.    Before  the  Castle 
{Enter  Golaud  and  little  Yniold.~\ 

Golaud.  Come,  we  will  sit  down  here,  Yniold; 
come  on  to  my  knee :  from  here  we  shall  be 
able  to  see  all  that  is  going  on  in  the  forest. 
I  seem  never  to  see  you  now.  You  too  forsake 
me ;  you  are  always  with  your  little  mother  .  .  . 
Why,  we  are  sitting  just  under  little  mother's 
windows. — She  is  perhaps  saying  her  evening 
prayers  at  this  moment  .  .  .  But  tell  me,  Yni- 
old, she  and  your  Uncle  Pelleas  are  often  to- 
gether, are  they  not? 

Yniold.  Yes,  yes;  always,  father  dear;  when  you 
are  not  there,  father  .  .  . 

Golaud.    Ah ! — Look,  some  one  is  passing  with  a 


86        PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

lantern  in  the  garden. — But  I  have  been  told 
that  they  don't  care  for  one  another  ...  It  ap- 
pears that  they  often  quarrel  ...  eh?  Is  it 
true? 

Yniold.    Yes,  yes ;  it  is  true. 

Golaud.  Yes ! — Ah !  ah ! — But  what  do  they  quar- 
rel about? 

Yniold.    About  the  door. 

Golaud.  What?  About  the  door? — What  are 
you  telling  me  there? — Come  now,  explain  your- 
self; why  should  they  quarrel  about  the  door? 

Yniold.    Because  it  cannot  be  left  open. 

Golaud.  Who  will  not  have  it  left  open? — Come, 
why  do  they  quarrel? 

Yniold.     I  don't  know,   father  dear,   about  the 

„  light 

Golaud.     I  am  not  speaking  about  the  light;  we 

will  talk  about  that  presently.  I  am  speaking 
about  the  door.  Answer  what  I  ask  you;  you 
must  learn  to  speak;  it  is  time  .  .  .  Don't  put 
your  hand  in  your  mouth  .  .  .  come  .  .  . 

Yniold.  Father  1  dear  father !  .  .  .  I  won't  do  it 
any  more  .  .  .  [He  cries.  ] 

Golaud.  Come  now;  what  are  you  crying  for? 
What  is  the  matter? 

Yniold.    Oh !  oh !  father  dear,  you  hurt  me  .  .  . 

Golaud.  I  have  hurt  you? — Where  have  I  hurt 
you?  I  never  meant  to  do  it  ... 

Yniold.    Here,  here;  on  my  little  arm  .   .  . 

Golaud.     I  never  meant  to  do  it;  come,  don't  cry 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        87 

any  more,  I  will  give  you  something  to-mor- 
row .  .  . 

Yniold.    What,  father  dear? 

Golaud.  A  quiver  and  arrows;  but  now  tell  me 
what  you  know  about  the  door. 

Yniold.     Big  arrows? 

Golaud.  Yes,  yes ;  very  big  arrows. — But  why  will 
they  not  have  the  door  left  open? — Come,  an- 
swer me  ! — no,  no ;  don't  open  your  mouth  to 
cry.  I  am  not  angry.  We  will  talk  quietly  as 
Pelleas  and  little  mother  do  when  they  are  to- 
gether. What  do  they  talk  about  when  they  are 
together? 

Yniold.    Pelleas  and  little  mother? 

Golaud.     Yes;  what  do  they  talk  about? 

Yniold.    About  me ;  always  about  me. 

Golaud.    And  what  do  they  say  about  you? 

Yniold.    They  say  that  I  shall  grow  very  tall. 

Golaud.  Ah!  misery!  .  .  .  I  am  here  like  a  blind 
man  that  seeks  his  treasure  in  the  ocean's 
depths !  .  .  .  I  am  like  a  new-born  infant  lost 
in  the  forest,  and  you  .  .  .  But  come,  Yniold,  I 
was  deep  in  thought;  let  us  talk  seriously.  Pel- 
leas  and  little  mother,  do  they  never  speak  of 
me  when  I  am  not  there  ?  .  .  . 

Yniold.  Yes,  yes,  father  dear;  they  always  speak 
of  you. 

Golaud.    Ah!  .  .  .  And  what  do  they  about  me? 

Yniold.    They  say  that  I  shall  grow  as  tall  as  you. 

Golaud.    Are  you  always  with  them? 

Yniold.    Yes,  yes;  always,  always,  father  dear. 


88         PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

Golaud.  They  never  tell  you  to  go  and  play  else- 
where? 

Yniold.  No,  father  dear;  they  are  afraid  when  I 
am  not  there. 

Golaud.  They  are  afraid?  ...  by  what  can  you 
see  that  they  are  afraid? 

Yniold.  Little  mother  who  is  always  saying :  don't 
go  away,  don't  go  away  .  .  .  They  are  unhap- 
py, and  yet  they  laugh  .  .  . 

Golaud.  But  that  does  not  prove  that  they  are 
afraid  .  .  . 

Yniold.    Yes,  yes,  father  dear;  she  is  afraid  .  .  . 

Golaud.    What  makes  you  say  that  she  is  afraid? 

Yniold.    They  always  cry  in  the  dark. 

Golaud.    Ah !  ah !  ... 

Yniold.     That  makes  one  cry  too  .  .  . 

Golaud.    Yes,  yes  .  .  . 

Yniold.    She  is  pale,  father  dear. 

Golaud.  Ah!  ah!  ...  patience,  my  God,  pa- 
tience .  .  . 

Yniold.    What,  father  dear? 

Golaud.  Nothing,  nothing,  my  child. — I  saw  a 
wolf  pass  in  the  forest. — Then  they  are  on  good 
terms? — I  am  glad  to  hear  that  they  agree. — 
They  kiss  each  other  sometimes? — No?  .  .  . 

Yniold.  If  they  kiss  each  other,  father  dear? — 
No,  no, — ah!  yes,  father  dear,  yes,  yes,  once 
.  .  .  once  when  it  was  raining  .  .  . 

Golaud.  They  kissed  each  other? — But  how,  how 
did  they  kiss? — 

Yniold.    So,  father  dear,  so !  ...   [He  gives  him 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        89 

a  kiss  on  the  mouth,  laughing.]  Ah !  ah  I  your 
beard,  father  dear!  .  .  .  It  pricks !  it  pricks  !  it 
pricks!  It  is  growing  quite  grey,  father,  and 
your  hair  too ;  all  grey,  all  grey  .  .  .  [The  win- 
dow beneath  which  they  are  sitting  is  here  illu- 
mined, and  its  brightness  falls  upon  them.] 
Ah !  ah !  little  mother  has  lighted  her  lamp !  It 
is  light  now,  father  dear,  it  is  light !  .  .  . 

Golaud.    Yes ;  light  is  dawning  .  .  . 

Yniold.  Let  us  go  there  too,  father  dear;  let  us 
go  there  too  .  .  . 

Golaud.     Where  do  you  want  to  go? 

Yniold.    Where  the  light  is,  father  dear. 

Golaud.  No,  no,  my  child:  let  us  stay  here  in  the 
shade  awhile  .  .  .  one  cannot  tell,  one  cannot 
tell  yet  .  .  .  Do  you  see  these  poor  creatures 
over  there  who  are  trying  to  light  a  little  fire 
in  the  forest? — It  has  been  raining.  And  round 
the  other  way,  do  you  see  the  old  gardener  try- 
ing to  lift  up  that  tree  which  the  wind  has 
blown  across  the  path? — He  cannot  do  it;  the 
tree  is  too  big;  the  tree  is  too  heavy,  and  it 
must  lie  where  it  fell.  There  is  no  help  for  it 
all  ...  I  think  that  Pelleas  is  mad  .  .  . 

Yniold.  No,  father  dear,  he  is  not  mad,  but  he 
is  very  kind. 

Golaud.     Do  you  want  to  see  your  little  mother? 

Yniold.     Yes,  yes;  I  want  to  see  her! 

Golaud.     Don't  make  a  noise;  I  will  hoist  you  up 

to  the  window.    It  is  too  high  for  me,  although 

I  am  so  big  .  .  .    [He  lifts  up  the  child.]  Don't 


90        PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

make  the  least  noise;  little  mother  would  be  ter- 
ribly frightened  .  .  .  Can  you  see  her? — Is  she 

in  the  room? 

Yniold.    Yes  ...  Oh !  it  is  light ! 
Golaud.     Is  she  alone? 
Yniold.     Yes  .   .  .  no,  no;  my  uncle   Pelleas  is 

there  too. 

Golaud.    He !  .  .  . 
Yniold.     Ah!  ah!  father  dear!     You  are  hurting 

me!  ... 
Golaud.    Never  mind;  be  quiet.    I  shall  not  do  it 

again;   look,   look,   Yniold!   ...   I   stumbled; 

speak  lower.    What  are  they  doing? — 
Yniold.     They  are  doing  nothing,   father  dear; 

they  are  expecting  something. 
Golaud.    Are  they  near  one  another? 
Yniold.    No,  father  dear. 
Golaud.     And  .  .  .   and  the  bed?  are  they  near 

the  bed? 
Yniold.     The  bed,  father  dear? — I  don't  see  the 

bed. 
Golaud.  Lower,  lower;  they  might  hear  you.    Are 

they  saying  anything? 
Yniold.     No,  father  dear;  they  are  saying  noth- 

ing. 
Golaud.     But  what  are  they  doing? — They  must 

be  doing  something  .  .  . 
Yniold.    They  are  looking  at  the  light. 
Golaud.     Both  of  them? 
Yniold.    Yes,  father  dear. 
Golaud.    And  not  speaking? 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        91 

Yniold.  No,  father  dear;  they  have  not  closed 
their  eyes. 

Golaud.  They  are  not  going  towards  one  an- 
other? 

Yniold.    No,  father  dear ;  they  have  not  moved. 

Golaud.    Are  they  sitting  down  ? 

Yniold.  No,  father  dear;  they  are  standing 
against  the  wall. 

Golaud.  They  are  making  no  gestures? — They 
are  not  looking  at  one  another? — They  are  not 
making  signs?  .  .  . 

Yniold.  No,  father  dear. — Oh!  oh!  father,  they 
never  close  their  eyes  ...  I  am  dreadfully 
frightened  .  .  . 

Golaud.     Be  still.    They  have  not  moved  yet? 

Yniold.  No,  father  dear — I  am  frightened,  father 
dear,  let  me  get  down !  .  .  . 

Golaud.  What  is  there  to  be  afraid  of? — Look! 
look!  .  .  . 

Yniold.  I  dare  not  look  any  more,  father  dear ! 
.  .  .  Let  me  down !  .  .  . 

Golaud.    Look !  look !  .  .  . 

Yniold.  Oh !  oh !  I  am  going  to  scream,  father 
dear !  .  .  .  Let  me  down !  let  me  down !  .  .  . 

Golaud.  Come ;  we  will  go  and  see  what  has  hap- 
pened. [Exeunt.] 


ACT  IV 

SCENE  I.    A  Passage  In  the  Castle 
[Enter,  meeting,  Pelleas  and  Metis ande.~\ 

Pelleas.  Where  are  you  going?  I  must  speak 
with  you  this  evening.  Shall  I  see  you? 

Melisande.    Yes. 

Pelleas.  I  have  just  left  my  father's  room.  He 
is  better.  The  doctor  has  told  us  that  he  is 
out  of  danger.  Yet  this  morning  I  had  a  fore- 
boding that  the  day  would  end  ill.  Misfortune 
for  some  time  has  been  buzzing  in  my  ears  .  .  . 
Then,  there  suddenly  came  a  great  change;  it 
is  now  merely  a  question  of  time.  They  have 
opened  all  the  windows  of  his  room.  He 
speaks;  he  seems  happy.  He  still  does  not  speak 
like  an  ordinary  man;  but  his  ideas  no  longer 
all  seem  to  come  from  the  other  world  .  .  . 
He  has  recognised  me.  He  took  my  hand  and 
said  with  that  strange  look  he  has  worn  ever 
since  his  illness:  "Is  that  you,  Pelleas?  Why 
now,  I  never  noticed  it  before,  but  you  have  got 
the  sad  kindly  face  of  one  that  has  not  long  to 
live  .  .  .  You  must  travel;  you  must  travel 
.  .  ."  Strange;  I  shall  obey  him  .  .  .  My 
92 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        93 

mother  was  listening,  and  wept  for  joy. — 
Haven't  you  noticed?  The  house  already  seems 
to  have  come  to  life  again,  one  hears  breathing 
about  one,  speech,  and  the  sound  of  footsteps 
.  .  .  Listen;  I  hear  voices  behind  that  door. 
Quick,  quick,  answer  me,  where  shall  I  see  you  ? 

Metis ande.     Where  would  you  like? 

Pelleas.  In  the  park;  near  blindman's  well? — 
Are  you  willing? — Will  you  come? 

Metis  ande.    Yes. 

Pelleas.  It  is  the  last  evening; — I  am  going  to 
travel,  as  my  father  said.  You  will  never  see 
me  again  .  .  . 

Melisande.  You  must  not  say  that,  Pelleas  .  .  . 
I  shall  see  you  always;  I  shall  be  looking  at  you 
always  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  It  will  be  all  very  well  to  look  ...  I 
shall  be  so  far  away  that  you  will  never  be  able 
to  see  me  ...  I  shall  try  to  go  very  far  .  .  . 
I  am  filled  with  joy,  and  it  seems  as  if  I  had  the 
whole  weight  of  heaven  and  earth  on  my  body, 
to-day  .  .  . 

Melisande.  What  is  the  matter,  Pelleas? — I  no 
longer  understand  what  you  say  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  Go,  go,  let  us  part.  I  hear  voices  behind 
that  door  .  .  .  The  strangers  that  arrived  at 
the  castle  this  morning  are  going  out  .  .  . 
Come  away;  the  strangers  are  there  .  .  . 
[Exeunt  severally.] 


94        PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

SCENE  II.    A  Room  in  the  Castle 
\_Arkel  and  Metis ande  are  discovered.] 

Arkel.  Now  that  the  father  of  Pelleas  is  out  of 
danger,  and  that  illness,  death's  ancient  hand- 
maid, has  left  the  castle,  a  little  joy  and  a  little 
sunlight  at  last  will  come  into  the  house  again 
...  It  was  full  time !  For,  ever  since  your  ar- 
rival, we  have  lived  whispering,  as  it  were,  about 
a  closed  room  .  .  .  And,  indeed,  I  have  pitied 
you,  Melisande  .  .  .  You  arrived  here  all  joy- 
ous, like  a  child  in  search  of  a  merry-making, 
and  as  soon  as  you  entered  the  hall  I  saw  you 
change  face,  and  probably  soul  too,  just  as  one 
changes  face,  in  spite  of  oneself,  on  entering  at 
midday  a  cave  too  gloomy  and  too  cold  .  .  . 
And  since  then,  since  then,  because  of  all  this, 
often,  I  could  no  longer  make  you  out  ...  I 
watched  you,  you  stood  there,  careless  perhaps, 
but  with  the  strange  bewildered  look  of  one  that 
was  ever  expecting  a  great  sorrow,  out  in  the 
sunshine,  in  a  fair  garden  ...  I  cannot  explain 
myself  .  .  .  But  I  grieved  to  see  you ;  for  you  are 
too  young  and  too  beautiful  to  live  inhaling  day 
and  night  already  the  breath  of  death  .  .  .  But 
now  all  will  be  changed.  At  my  age, — and  this 
perhaps  is  the  surest  fruit  of  all  my  life, — at  my 
age  I  have  acquired  I  know  not  what  faith  in 
the  constancy  of  events,  and  I  have  always  ob- 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE        95 

served  that  each  young  and  beautiful  being 
shapes  around  it  events  that  are  themselves 
young,  beautiful,  and  happy  .  .  .  And  it  is  you, 
now,  that  are  going  to  open  the  door  to  the  new 
era  I  dimly  foresee  .  .  .  Come  here;  why  do 
you  stand  there  without  answering  and  without 
so  much  as  lifting  your  eyes  ? — I  have  kissed  you 
but  once  until  this  day;  and  yet  old  men  have 
need  to  touch  sometimes  with  their  lips  the  brow 
of  a  woman  or  the  cheek  of  a  child,  that  they 
may  believe  again  in  the  freshness  of  life  and 
repel  for  an  instant  the  menaces  .  .  .  Do  you 
fear  my  lips?  How  I  have  pitied  you  all  these 
months !  .  .  . 

Mellsande.    Grandfather,  I  was  not  unhappy  .  .  . 

Arkel.  You  were  perhaps  of  those  that  are  un- 
happy without  knowing  it  ...  and  those  are 
the  most  unhappy  .  .  .  Let  me  look  at  you  so, 
quite  close,  a  moment  .  .  .  One  stands  in  such 
need  of  beauty  when  death  is  at  one's  side  .  .  . 
[Enter  Golaud.~\ 

Golaud.    Pelleas  leaves  this  evening. 

Arkel.  There  is  blood  upon  your  forehead? — 
What  have  you  been  doing? 

Golaud.  Nothing,  nothing  ...  I  have  been 
through  a  hedge  of  thorns. 

Melisande.  Bend  down  your  head  a  little,  my 
lord  ...  I  will  wipe  your  brow  .  .  . 

Golaud  [repulsing  her.~\  I  will  not  have  you  touch 
me,  do  you  hear?  Go  away,  go  away! — I  am 


96        PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

not  speaking  to  you.  Where  is  my  sword? — I 
came  to  fetch  my  sword  .  .  . 

Melisande.    Here ;  on  the  prayer-desk. 

Golaud.  Bring  it.  [To  ArkeL~\  Another  poor 
wretch  has  just  been  found  on  the  sea-shore, 
starved  to  death.  It  seems  as  if  they  were  all 
bent  on  dying  under  our  very  eyes — \To  Meli- 
sande.^ Well,  my  sword? — Why  are  you 
trembling? — I  am  not  going  to  kill  you.  I  mere- 
ly want  to  examine  the  blade.  I  do  not  use  a 
sword  for  such  things.  Why  are  you  examining 
me  as  if  I  were  some  beggar?  I  have  not  come 
to  ask  your  alms.  Do  you  hope  to  read  some- 
thing in  my  eyes,  without  my  reading  anything 
in  yours? — Do  you  think  that  I  know  anything? 
—  \_To  Arkel.~\  Do  you  see  those  wide  eyes? 
One  would  say  they  were  proud  to  be  rich  .  .  . 

Arkel.  I  see  nothing  there  but  great  inno- 
cence .  .  . 

Golaud.  Great  innocence !  .  .  .  They  are  greater 
than  innocence !  .  .  .  They  are  purer  than  the 
eyes  of  a  lamb  .  .  .  They  could  give  lessons  in 
innocence  to  God!  Great  innocence!  Listen; 
I  am  so  near  to  them  that  I  feel  the  freshness 
of  their  lids  when  they  blink;  and  yet,  I  am  less 
far  from  the  great  secrets  of  the  other  world 
than  from  the  least  secret  of  those  eyes !  .  .  . 
Great  innocence!  .  .  .  More  than  innocence! 
It  almost  seems  as  if  the  angels  of  heaven  were 
eternally  celebrating  a  baptism  there  ...  I 
know  them,  those  eyes  I  I  have  seen  them  at 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE       97 

work!  Close  them !  close  them !  or  I  shall  close 
them  for  long  .  .  . — Don't  put  your  right  hand 
up  to  your  throat;  I  am  saying  a  very  simple 
thing  ...  I  have  no  double  thoughts  ...  If 
I  had  a  double  thought  why  should  I  not  say  it? 
Ah!  ah! — don't  try  to  run  away! — Here! — 
Give  me  that  hand! — Ah!  your  hands  are  too 
hot  .  .  .  Go  away!  Your  flesh  disgusts  me 
.  .  .  Here ! — There  is  no  question  now  of  run- 
ning away! — [He  seizes  her  by  the  hairJ\ — 
You  are  going  to  follow  me  on  your  knees ! — 
On  your  knees  ! — On  your  knees  before  me  ! — 
Ah!  ah!  your  long  hair  serves  some  purpose  at 
last!  .  .  .  First  to  the  right  and  then  to  the 
left ! — Absalom !  Absalom ! — Forward !  back- 
ward! Down  to  the  ground;  down  to  the 
ground!  .  .  .  You  see,  you  see;  I  am  already 
laughing  like  an  old  man  .  .  . 

Arkel  [running  forward.]     Golaud!   .   .   . 

Golaud  [affecting  a  sudden  calm~\.  You  shall  do 
as  you  please,  do  you  see. — I  attach  no  impor- 
tance to  it. — I  am  too  old;  and  then,  I  am  not 
a  spy.  I  shall  wait  to  see  what  chance  brings, 
and  then  .  .  .  Oh !  then !  .  .  .  merely  because 
it  is  the  custom;  merely  because  it  is  the  cus- 
tom .  .  .  [Exit.~\ 

Arkel.  What  is  the  matter  with  him? — Is  he 
drunk? 

Melisande  [in  tears~\.  No,  no;  but  he  does  not 
love  me  any  more  ...  I  am  not  happy !  .  .  . 
I  am  not  happy  .  .  . 


98        PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

Arke'l.    If  I  were  God  I  should  pity  the  heart  of 
men  . 


SCENE  III.     A  Terrace  before  the  Castle 

[Little  Yniold  is  discovered  trying  to  lift  a  piece 
of  rock.} 

Little  Yniold.  Oh!  this  stone  is  heavy  I  ...  It 
is  heavier  than  I  am  ...  It  is  heavier  than 
all  the  world  ...  It  is  heavier  than  all  that 
has  happened  ...  I  can  see  my  golden  ball 
between  the  rock  and  this  naughty  stone,  and 
I  cannot  reach  it  ...  My  little  arm  is  not  long 
enough  .  .  .  and  the  stone  will  not  be  lifted 
...  I  cannot  lift  it  ...  and  there  is  nobody 
that  could  lift  it  ...  It  is  heavier  than  the 
whole  house  .  .  .  one  might  think  it  had  roots 
in  the  earth  .  .  .  [The  bleating  of  a  flock  is 
heard  in  the  distance.}  Ohl  ohl  I  hear  some 
sheep  crying  .  .  .  [He  goes  to  the  edge  of  the 
terrace  to  look.}  Why!  the  sun  has  gone  away 
.  .  .  They  are  coming,  the  little  sheep ;  they  are 
coming  .  .  .  How  many  there  are !  .  .  .  How 
many  there  are!  .  .  .  They  are  afraid  of  the 
dark  .  .  .  They  huddle  together !  They  huddle 
together!  .  .  .  They  can  hardly  walk  any  fur- 
ther .  .  .  They  are  crying!  they  are  crying!  and 
they  are  running  fast  .  .  .  running  fast!  .  .  . 
They  are  already  at  the  big  cross-road.  Ah! 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE       99 

ah!  They  don't  know  which  way  to  go  .  .  . 
They  are  not  crying  now  .  .  .  They  are  wait- 
ing .  .  .  There  are  some  that  want  to  turn  to 
the  right  .  .  .  They  all  want  to  turn  to 
the  right  .  .  .  They  may  not!  .  .  .  Their 
shepherd  is  throwing  earth  at  them  .  .  .  Ah! 
ah !  They  are  going  to  pass  this  way  .  .  .  They 
are  obeying!  They  are  obeying!  They  are  go- 
ing to  pass  in  front  of  the  terrace  .  .  .  They 
are  going  to  pass  in  front  of  the  rocks  ...  I 
shall  see  them  close  .  .  .  Oh!  oh!  how  many 
there  are !  .  .  .  How  many  there  are  .  .  .  All 
the  road  is  full  of  them  .  .  .  They  are  all  si- 
lent now  .  .  .  Shepherd !  shepherd !  why  don't 
they  talk  any  more? 

The  Shepherd  [unseen].  Because  it  is  no  longer 
the  way  to  the  fold  .  .  . 

Ynlold.  Where  are  they  going?  Shepherd!  shep- 
herd!— where  are  they  going? — He  does  not 
hear  me.  They  are  already  too  far  away  .  .  . 
They  are  running  fast  .  .  .  They  make  no 
noise  now  ...  It  is  no  longer  the  way  to  the 
fold  .  .  .  Where  will  they  sleep  to-night,  I 
wonder?  Oh!  oh!  It  is  too  dark  here!  .  .  . 
I  shall  go  and  say  something  to  somebody  .  .  . 
[Exit.] 


ioo      PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

SCENE  IV.    A  Spring  in  the  Park 
[Enter  Pelleas.'] 

Pelleas.  It  is  the  last  evening  .  .  .  the  last  eve- 
ning .  .  .  All  must  end  here  ...  I  have 
played  like  a  child  about  a  thing  I  did  not  sus- 
pect ...  I  have  played,  dreaming,  about  the 
pitfalls  of  destiny  .  .  .  Who  is  it  that  suddenly 
has  waked  me?  I  shall  take  flight  shrieking 
with  joy  and  pain,  as  a  blind  man  might  flee 
from  the  burning  of  his  house  ...  I  shall  tell 
her  that  I  am  taking  flight  .  .  .  My  father  is 
out  of  danger,  and  I  have  not  now  wherewith 
to  lie  to  myself  ...  It  is  late;  she  is  not  com- 
ing .  .  .  ,It  would  be  better  for  me  to  go  with- 
out seeing  her  again  ...  I  must  look  at  her 
well  this  time  .  .  .  There  are  things  I  cannot 
remember  .  .  .  One  would  think  at  times  I  had 
not  seen  her  for  a  hundred  years  .  .  .  And  I 
have  not  yet  gazed  at  her  gaze  ...  I  shall 
have  nothing  left  if  I  go  away  so.  And  all  these 
memories  .  .  .  it  is  as  if  I  were  to  carry  away 
a  little  water  in  a  muslin  bag  ...  I  must  see 
her  one  last  time,  see  down  into  the  depths  of 
her  heart  ...  I  must  say  all  that  I  have  not 
said  .  .  .  [Enter  Melisande.'] 

Melisande.    Pelleas ! 

Pelleas.    Melisande!    Is  it  you,  Melisande? 

Melisande.     Yes. 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE       101 

Pelleas.  Come  here ;  don't  stand  there  at  the  edge 
of  the  moonlight.  Come  here.  We  have  so 
much  to  say  to  one  another  .  .  .  Come  here 
into  the  shadow  of  the  lime-tree. 

Melisande.     Leave  me  in  the  light. 

Pelleas.  They  might  see  us  from  the  turret  win- 
dows. Come  here;  here  we  have  nothing  to 
fear.  Take  care ;  they  might  see  us  .  .  ~ 

Melisande.    I  want  them  to  see  me  .   .  . 

Pelleas.  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  Were 
you  able  to  leave  unseen? 

Melisande.     Yes;  your  brother  was  asleep  .   .  . 

Pelleas.  It  is  late.  In  an  hour  they  will  close  the 
doors.  We  must  take  care.  Why  did  you  come 
so  late? 

Melisande.  Your  brother  had  a  bad  dream.  And 
then  my  dress  caught  in  the  nails  of  the  door. 
Look,  it  is  torn.  All  that  time  I  lost,  and  I 
ran  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  My  poor  Melisande !  .  .  .  I  should  al- 
most be  afraid  to  touch  you  .  .  .  you  are  still 
all  out  of  breath  like  a  hunted  bird  ...  Is  it 
for  me,  for  me  that  you  do  all  this?  .  .  .  I  hear 
your  heart  beat  as  if  it  were  my  own  .  .  .  Come 
here  .  .  .  closer,  closer  to  me  .  .  . 

Melisande.    Why  are  you  laughing? 

Pelleas.  I  am  not  laughing; — or  else  I  am  laugh- 
ing for  joy,  without  knowing  it  ...  There  is 
rather  cause  to  weep  .  .  . 

Melisande.  We  have  been  here  before  ...  I 
remember  . 


102       PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

Pelleas.  Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  Long  months  ago 
.  .  .  Then,  I  did  not  know  .  .  .  Do  you  know 
why  I  asked  you  to  come  this  evening? 

Melisande.    No. 

Pelleas.  It  is  the  last  time  I  shall  see  you,  perhaps 
...  I  have  to  go  away  for  ever  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Why  do  you  always  say  that  you  are 
going?  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  Must  I  tell  you  what  you  know  already? 
Don't  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you? 

Melisande.  Indeed  not,  indeed  not ;  I  know  noth- 
ing ... 

Pelleas.  Don't  you  know  why  I  have  to  go  away? 
.  .  .  Don't  you  know  that  it  is  because  .  .  . 
[He  kisses  her  abruptly. ]  ...  I  love  you  .  .  . 

Melisande  [in  a  low  voice].    I  love  you  too  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  Oh  !  oh !  What  did  you  say,  Melis'ande  ? 
...  I  hardly  heard  what  you  said  .  .  .  The 
ice  has  been  broken  with  red-hot  irons  .  .  . 
You  say  that  in  a  voice  that  comes  from  the  end 
of  the  world!  ...  I  hardly  heard  you  .  .  . 
You  love  me?  You  love  me  too?  .  .  .  Since 
when  have  you  loved  me? 

Melisande.  Since  .  .  .  always  .  .  .  Since  I  first 
saw  you. 

Pelleas.  Oh  !  how  you  say  that !  .  .  .  One  would 
say  that  your  voice  had  passed  over  the  sea  in 
spring-time !  .  .  .  I  never  heard  it  until  now 
...  it  seems  as  if  rain  had  fallen  on  my  heart 
.  .  .  You  say  that  so  simply!  .  .  .  As  a  ques- 
tioned angel  might  ...  I  cannot  believe  it, 


103 

Melisande  .  .  .  Why  should  you  love  me? 
But  why  do  you  love  me?  Is  it  true  what  you 
say?  You  are  not  deceiving  me?  You  are  not 
lying  just  a  little,  to  make  me  smile?  .  .  . 

Melisande.  No,  I  never  lie;  I  only  lie  to  your 
brother. 

Pelleas.  Oh !  how  you  say  that  I  ...  Your  voice ! 
your  voice !  ...  It  is  fresher  and  truer  than 
water  1  ...  It  feels  like  pure  water  on  my  lips ! 
...  It  feels  like  pure  water  on  my  hands  .  .  . 
Give  me,  give  me  your  hands  .  .  .  Oh!  your 
hands  are  small  ...  I  did  not  know  you  were 
so  beautiful !  .  .  .  I  had  never  seen  anything  so 
beautiful  before  I  saw  you  ...  I  was  ill  at 
ease,  I  sought  throughout  the  house,  I  sought 
throughout  the  country  .  .  .  And  I  could  not 
find  beauty  .  .  .  And  now  I  have  found  you ! 
...  I  have  found  you!  ...  I  don't  believe 
earth  holds  a  more  beautiful  woman !  .  .  . 
Where  are  you?  I  no  longer  hear  you  breathe 

Melisande.  That  is  because  I  am  looking  at 
you  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  Why  are  you  looking  at  me  so  solemnly? 
We  are  already  in  the  shade.  It  is  too  dark 
under  this  tree.  Come  into  the  light.  We  can- 
not see  how  happy  we  are.  Come,  come;  we 
have  so  little  time  .  .  . 

Melisande.  No,  no;  let  us  stay  here  ...  I  am 
nearer  to  you  in  the  dark  .  .  . 

Pelleas.     Where   are  your  eyes?     You   are   not 


104      PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

going  to  run  away  from  me?  You  are  not  think- 
ing of  me  at  this  moment. 

MeHsande.  Indeed  yes,  indeed  yes;  I  think  but 
of  you  .  .  . 

Pelleas.    You  were  looking  elsewhere  .  .  . 

Mellsande.     I  saw  you  elsewhere  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  You  are  rapt  .  .  .  What  is  the  matter 
with  you?  You  seem  not  to  be  happy  .  .  . 

Melisande.     Yes,  yes;  I  am  happy,  but  I  am  sad 

Pelleas.     One  is  sad,  often,  when  one  loves  .   .   . 

Melisande.  I  must  always  weep  when  I  think  of 
you  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  I  too  ...  I  too,  Melisande  ...  I  am 
close  to  you;  I  weep  for  joy,  and  yet  .  .  .  [He 
kisses  her  again  J]  .  .  .  you  are  strange  when  I 
kiss  you  so  ...  You  are  so  beautiful  that  one 
would  say  you  were  going  to  die  .  .  . 

Melisande.    You  too  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  There,  there  .  .  .  We  cannot  do  as  we 
wish  ...  I  did  not  love  you  the  first  time  I 
saw  you  .  .  . 

Melisande.    Nor  I  ...  nor  I  ...  I  was  afraid 

Pelleas.  I  could  not  admit  of  your  eyes  ...  I 
wanted  to  go  away  at  once  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  . 

Melisande.  I  never  wanted  to  come  ...  I  still 
don't  know  why,  I  was  afraid  to  come  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  There  are  so  many  things  one  will  never 
know  .  .  .  We  are  always  waiting;  and  then 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE       105 

.  .  .  What  noise  is  that?     They  are  closing 

the  doors!  .  .  . 

Melisande.    Yes,  they  have  closed  the  doors  .  .  . 
Pelleas.     We  shall  not  be  able  to  go  back!     Do 

you  hear  the  bolts?  Listen!  listen!   .   .  .  the  big 

chains !  .  .  .  the  big  chains !   ...  It  is  too  late, 

it  is  too  late!  .  .  . 
Melisande.    All  the  better !  all  the  better !  all  the 

better!  .  .  . 
Pelleas.    You?  .  .  .  See,  see  .  .  .  It  is  no  longer 

we  who  wish  it!  ...  All's  lost,  all's  saved! 

all's  saved  this  evening!     Come!   come  .  .  . 

My  heart  beats  like  a  madman,  right  up  at  my 

throat  .  .  .   [He  enfolds  her. ]     Listen !  listen  ! 

my  heart  is  about  to  choke  me  .  .  .  Come! 

come  1  ...  Ah !  how  beautiful  it  is  in  the  dark ! 

Melisande.    There  is  some  one  behind  us !  ... 

Pelleas.     I  see  no  one  .  .  . 

Melisande.    I  heard  a  noise  .  .  . 

Pelleas.     I  only  hear  your  heart  in  the  dark  .  .  . 

Melisande.    I  heard  the  dead  leaves  crackle  .  .   . 

Pelleas.  It  is  the  wind  that  has  hushed  suddenly 
...  It  fell  whilst  we  were  kissing  .  .  . 

Melisande.  How  tall  our  shadows  are  this  eve- 
ning! .  .  . 

Pelleas.  They  entwine  right  down  to  the  end  of 
the  garden  .  .  .  Oh!  how  far  from  us  they 
kiss!  .  .  .  Look!  look!  .  .  . 

Melisande  [in  stifled  voice].  A-a-h!  He  is  be- 
hind a  tree ! 


Pelleas.    Who? 

Melisande.    Golaud ! 

Pelleas.  Golaud? — where  then? — I  see  noth- 
ing ... 

Melisande.  There  ...  at  the  tip  of  our  shad- 
ows .  .  . 

Pelleas.  Yes,  yes ;  I  have  seen  him  .  .  .  We  must 
not  turn  round  too  suddenly  .  .  . 

Melisande.     He  has  his  sword  .  .  . 

Pelleas.     I  have  none  .   .  . 

Melisande.    He  saw  that  we  were  kissing  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  He  does  not  know  that  we  have  seen  him 
.  .  .  Do  not  move;  do  not  turn  your  head  .  .  . 
he  would  rush  out  upon  us  ...  He  will  stay 
there  as  long  as  he  thinks  we  know  nothing  .  .  . 
He  is  watching  us  ...  He  is  still  motionless 
.  .  .  Go,  go  at  once,  this  way  ...  I  will  wait 
for  him,  I  will  hold  him  back  .  .  . 

Melisande.    No,  no,  no  !   ... 

Pelleas.  Go !  go !  He  has  seen  everything !  .  .  . 
He  will  kill  us!  .  .  . 

Melisande.  All  the  better  I  all  the  better!  all  the 
better!  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  He  is  coming!  he  is  coming!  ...  Your 
mouth !  .  .  .  Your  mouth !  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Yes !  .  .  .  yes !  yes !  .  .  .  [  They  kiss 
distractedly.'} 

Pelleas.    Oh!  oh!    All  the  stars  are  falling!   .   .  . 

Melisande.    On  me  too  !  on  me  too  !   .  .   . 

Pelleas.    Again !    Again  I   ...  Give !  give !   .  .   . 

Melisande.    All!  all!  all!     [Golaud  rushes  upon 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE       107 

them,  sword  in  hand,  and  strikes  Pelleas,  who 
falls  beside  the  spring.  Melisande  flies  terror- 
stricken.] 

Melisande  [flying].  Oh!  oh!  I  am  not  brave 
...  I  am  not  brave!  .  .  .  \_Golaud  pursues 
her  through  the  wood  in  silence.] 


ACTV 

SCENE  I.    A  low  hall  in  the  Castle 

\The  M.  aid-servants  are  discovered  gathered  to- 
gether; some  children  are  •playing  outside,  be- 
fore one  of  the  air-holes. ~\ 

An  old  Servant.    Wait  and  see,  wait  and  see,  girls ; 

it  will  be  this  evening.    They  will  come  and  tell 

us  presently  .  .  . 
Another  Servant.    They  will  not  come  and  tell  us 

.  .  .  They    no    longer    know    what    they    are 

about  .  .  . 

Third  Servant.    Let  us  wait  here  .  .  . 
Fourth  Servant.    We  shall  know  well  enough  when 

to  go  upstairs  .  .  . 
Fifth  Servant.    When  the  time  comes,  we  will  go 

up  of  our  own  accord  .  .  . 
Sixth  Servant.     There  is  no  sound  to  be  heard 

now  in  the  house  .  .  . 
Seventh  Servant.    We  ought  to  tell  those  children 

to  be  quiet  who  are  playing  in  front  of  the 

air-hole. 

Eighth  Servant.  They  will  keep  quiet  of  them- 
selves presently. 

108 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE      109 

Ninth  Servant.  The  time  has  not  yet  come  .  .  . 
[Enter  an  old  Servant.] 

The  old  Servant.  No  one  can  get  into  the  room 
now.  I  listened  for  over  an  hour  .  .  .  One 
might  have  heard  the  flies  walk  on  the  doors 
...  I  heard  nothing  .  .  . 

First  Servant.  Have  they  left  her  alone  in  the 
room? 

The  old  Servant.  No,  no ;  I  think  the  room  is  full 
of  people. 

First  Servant.  They  will  be  coming,  they  will  be 
coming  presently  .  .  . 

The  old  Servant.  Lord!  Lord!  It  is  not  happi- 
ness that  has  entered  the  house  .  .  .  One  may 
not  speak,  but  if  I  could  tell  what  I  know  .  .  . 

Second  Servant.  It  was  you  that  found  them  at 
the  door? 

The  old  Servant.  Why  yes,  yes ;  it  was  I  that  found 
them.  The  doorkeeper  says  it  was  he  that  saw 
them  first;  yet  it  was  I  that  waked  him.  He  was 
lying  asleep  on  his  stomach  and  would  not  wake 
up. — And  now  he  comes  and  says :  It  was  I  that 
saw  them  first.  Is  that  fair? — You  must  know 
that  I  had  burnt  myself  lighting  a  lamp  to  go 
down  into  the  cellar. — Whatever  was  I  going  to 
do  in  the  cellar? — I  can't  remember  now  what 
I  was  going  to  do  in  the  cellar. — Anyway,  I  got 
up  very  early;  it  was  not  yet  quite  light;  I  said 
to  myself:  I  will  cross  the  courtyard  and  then 
I  will  open  the  door.  Well,  I  went  downstairs 
on  tip-toe  and  opened  the  door  as  if  it  were  any 


I  io      PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

ordinary  door  .  .  .  Lord !  Lord !  What  did  I 
see?  Guess  what  I  saw?  .  .  . 

First  Servant.  They  were  just  in  front  of  the 
door? 

The  old  Servant.  They  were  lying,  both  of  them, 
in  front  of  the  door!  .  .  .  Just  like  poor  folk 
that  have  been  hungry  too  long  .  .  .  They  were 
clinging  close  together  as  little  children  do  when 
they  are  afraid.  The  little  princess  was  nearly 
dead,  and  big  Golaud  still  had  his  sword  stick- 
ing in  his  side  .  .  .  There  was  blood  on  the 
stones  .  .  . 

Second  Servant.  We  ought  to  tell  the  children  to 
be  quiet  .  .  .  They  are  screaming  with  all 
their  might  in  front  of  the  air-hole  .  .  . 

Third  Servant.  One  can  no  longer  hear  what  one 
is  saying  .  .  . 

Fourth  Servant.  There  is  nothing  to  be  done;  I 
have  tried  already,  they  will  not  be  quiet  .  .  . 

First  Servant.    It  seems  that  he  is  all  but  cured  ? 

The  old  Servant.    Who? 

First  Servant.     Big  Golaud. 

Third  Servant.  Yes;  yes;  they  have  led  him  into 
his  wife's  room.  I  met  them  just  now  in  the 
passage.  They  were  supporting  him  as  if  he 
were  drunk.  He  still  cannot  walk  alone. 

The  old  Servant.  He  could  not  manage  to  kill 
himself;  he  is  too  big.  But  she  was  hardly 
wounded  at  all,  and  it  is  she  that  is  going  to 
die  .  .  .  Do  you  understand  it? 

First  Servant.     Did  you  see  the  wound? 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE       in 

The  old  Servant.  As  clearly  as  I  see  you,  my  girl. 
— I  saw  everything,  do  you  understand  ...  I 
saw  it  before  any  of  the  others  ...  A  tiny 
little  wound  in  her  little  left  breast.  A  little 
wound  that  would  not  kill  a  pigeon.  Does  it 
seem  natural? 

First  Servant.  Yes,  yes;  there  is  something  be- 
neath all  this  .  .  . 

Second  Servant.  Yes;  but  she  was  confined  three 
days  ago  .  .  . 

The  old  Servant.  Just  so  1  ...  She  was  confined 
on  her  deathbed;  is  not  that  a  great  warning? 
— And  what  a  child!  Have  you  seen  it? — A 
little  puny  girl  that  a  beggar  would  not  care  to 
bring  into  the  world  ...  a  little  waxen  thing 
that  came  much  too  soon  ...  a  little  waxen 
thing  that  has  to  live  in  lamb's  wool  .  .  .  yes, 
yes;  it  is  not  happiness  that  has  entered  the 
house  .  .  . 

First  Servant.     Yes,  yes;  God's  hand  has  moved 

Second  Servant.  All  this  has  not  happened  for  no 
reason  .  .  . 

Third  Servant.  And  then  our  kind  lord  Pelleas 
.  .  .  where  is  he?  Nobody  knows  .  .  . 

The  old  Servant.  Indeed,  yes;  every  one  knows 
.  .  .  But  no  one  dares  speak  of  it  ...  One 
must  not  speak  of  this  .  .  .  one  must  not  speak 
of  that  .  .  .  one  no  longer  speaks  of  anything 
.  .  .  one  no  longer  speaks  the  truth  .  .  .  But 
I  know  that  he  was  found  at  the  bottom  of 


blindman's  well  .  .  .  only  nobody,  nobody  has 
been  able  to  get  a  sight  of  him  .  .  .  There, 
there,  it  is  only  on  the  last  day  that  all  will 
be  known  .  .  . 

First  Servant.     I  dare  no  longer  sleep  here  .   .  . 

The  old  Servant.  When  once  misfortune  has  en- 
tered the  house,  it's  all  very  well  to  hold  one's 
peace  .  .  . 

Third  Servant.    Yes;  it  finds  you  out  all  the  same 

The  old  Servant.     Yes,  yes ;  but  we  go  not  as  we 

would  .  .   . 

Fourth  Servant.  We  do  not  as  we  would  .  .  . 
First  Servant.  They  are  afraid  of  us  now  .  .  . 
Second  Servant.  They  keep  counsel,  all  of  them 

Third  Servant.  They  lower  their  eyes  in  the  pas- 
sages. 

Fourth  Servant.    They  speak  in  whispers  only. 

Fifth  Servant.  One  might  think  they  had  all  done 
it  together. 

Sixth  Servant.  There  is  no  knowing  what  they 
have  done  .  .  . 

Seventh  Servant.  What  is  one  to  do  when  the 
masters  are  afraid?  .  .  .  [Silence. .] 

First  Servant.    I  no  longer  hear  the  children  call- 

^  ing. 

Second  Servant.  They  have  sat  down  in  front  of 
the  air-hole. 

Third  Servant.  They  are  pressing  close  to  one 
another. 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE       113 

The  old  Servant.  I  hear  no  sound  now  in  the 
house  .  .  . 

First  Servant.  One  cannot  even  hear  the  children 
breathe  .  .  . 

The  old  Servant.  Come,  come ;  it  is  time  to  go  up- 
stairs .  .  .  [Exeunt,  in  silence.] 


SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  the  Castle 

\_Arkel,  Golaud,  and  the  Doctor  are  discovered 
in  a  corner  of  the  room.  Melisande  is  lying 
on  her  bed.] 

The  Doctor.  It  is  not  of  this  small  wound  that 
she  could  die;  a  bird  would  not  die  of  it  ... 
it  is  therefore  not  you  that  have  killed  her,  my 
good  lord;  you  must  not  distress  yourself  so 
.  .  .  She  could  not  have  lived  .  .  .  She  was 
born  for  no  reason  ...  to  die;  and  now  she 
is  dying  for  no  reason  .  .  .  And  then,  it  is  not 
said  that  we  shall  not  save  her  .  .  . 

Arke'l.  No,  no;  it  seems  to  me  that  we  are  too 
silent,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  in  her  room  .  .  . 
It  is  a  bad  sign  .  .  .  See  how  she  sleeps  .  .  . 
slowly,  slowly  ...  it  is  as  if  her  soul  had 
grown  chill  for  ever  .  .  . 

Golaud.  I  have  killed  without  cause !  I  have 
killed  without  cause !  ...  Is  it  not  enough  to 
make  the  stones  weep!  .  .  .  They  had  kissed 
each  other,  like  little  children  .  .  .  They  had 


H4      PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

simply  kissed  each  other  .  .  .  They  were  broth- 
er and  sister  .  .  .  And  I,  and  I  all  at  once ! 
...  I  did  it  in  spite  of  myself,  you  see  ...  I 
did  it  in  spite  of  myself  .  .  . 
The  Doctor.     Take  care;  I  think  she  is  waking 

Melisande.  Open  the  window  .  .  .  open  the  win- 
dow .  .  . 

Arkel.  Do  you  wish  me  to  open  this  one,  Meli- 
sande? 

Melisande.  No,  no,  the  big  window  .  .  .  the  big 
window  .  .  .  that  I  may  see  .  .  . 

Arkel.     Is  the  sea  air  not  too  cold  this  evening? 

The  Doctor.    Do  as  she  asks  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Thank  you  ...  Is  that  the  sun  set- 
ting? 

Arkel.  Yes ;  the  sun  is  setting  on  the  sea ;  it  is  late. 
How  are  you  feeling,  Melisande? 

Melisande.  Well,  well.  Why  do  you  ask  me 
that?  I  have  never  felt  better.  Yet  it  seems 
as  if  I  knew  of  something  .  .  . 

Arkel.  What  do  you  say?  I  don't  understand 
you  .  .  . 

Melisande.  I  don't  myself  understand  all  that  I 
say,  do  you  see  ...  I  don't  know  what  I  say 
...  I  don't  know  what  I  know  ...  I  no 
longer  say  what  I  wish  .  .  . 

Arkel.  Come  now,  come  now  .  .  .  It  is  a  joy  to 
hear  you  speak  so;  you  were  a  little  delirious 
these  last  days,  and  we  could  not  always  under- 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE      115 

stand  you  .  .  .  But  now,  that  is  all  very  far 

away  .  .  . 
Melisande.    I  don't  know  .  .  .  Are  you  all  alone 

in  the  room,  grandfather? 
Arkel.     No;  the  doctor  who  cured  you  is  here 

too  .  .  . 

Melisande.    Ah  ... 
Arkel.    And  then  there  is  some  one  else  besides 

Melisande.    Who  is  it? 

Arkel.  It  is  ...  You  must  not  be  afraid  .  .  . 
He  does  not  wish  you  the  least  harm,  be  sure 
of  it  ...  If  you  are  afraid,  he  will  go  away 
.  .  .  He  is  very  unhappy  .  .  . 

Melisande.    Who  is  it? 

Arkel.  It  is  ...  it  is  your  husband  ...  it  is 
Golaud  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Golaud  is  here?  Why  does  he  not 
come  close  to  me? 

Golaud  [dragging  himself  towards  the  bed~\. 
Melisande  .  .  .  Melisande  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Is  that  you,  Golaud?  I  hardly  knew 
you  again  ...  It  is  that  the  evening  sun  is 
shining  in  my  eyes  .  .  .  Why  are  you  looking 
at  the  walls?  You  have  grown  thinner  and 
older  .  .  .  Is  it  long  since  we  saw  each  other? 

Golaud  [to  Arkel  and  the  Doctor].  Will  you  go 
out  of  the  room  an  instant,  if  you  please,  if  you 
please  ...  I  will  leave  the  door  wide  open 
.  .  .  An  instant  only  ...  I  want  to  say  some- 
thing to  her;  otherwise  I  cannot  die  .  .  .  Will 


n6      PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

you?  Go  down  to  the  end  of  the  passage;  you 
can  come  back  at  once,  at  once  .  .  .  Do  not  re- 
fuse me  this  ...  I  am  a  miserable  wretch. 
[Exeunt  Arkel  and  the  Doctor.]  Melisande, 
have  you  some  pity  for  me,  as  I  have  for  you? 
.  .  .  Melisande?  .  .  .  Do  you  forgive  me, 
Melisande?  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Yes,  yes,  I  forgive  you  .  .  .  What 
is  there  to  forgive?  .  .  . 

Golaud.  I  have  done  you  such  great  wrong,  Meli- 
sande ...  I  cannot  tell  you  the  wrong  I  have 
done  you  .  .  .  But  I  see  it,  I  see  it  so  clearly 
to-day  .  .  .  ever  since  the  first  day  .  .  .  And 
all  that  hitherto  I  did  not  know,  leaps  into  my 
eyes  this  evening  .  .  .  And  it  is  all  my  fault, 
all  that  has  happened,  all  that  is  going  to  hap- 
pen ...  If  I  could  only  say  it,  you  would  see 
how  clearly  I  see !  .  .  .  I  see  all,  I  see  all!  .  .  . 
But  I  loved  you  so !  ...  I  loved  you  so !  ... 
And  now  some  one  is  going  to  die  ...  It  is  I 
that  am  going  to  die  .  .  .  And  I  want  to  know 
...  I  want  to  ask  you  .  .  .  You  will  not  take 
it  amiss?  .  .  .  I  want  .  .  .  The  truth  has  to  be 
told  to  one  about  to  die  .  .  .  He  has  to  know 
the  truth,  else  he  could  not  sleep  .  .  .  Do  you 
swear  to  tell  me  the  truth? 

Melisande.     Yes. 

Golaud.    Did  you  love  Pelleas? 

Melisande.    Why  yes :  I  loved  him.  Where  is  he  ? 

Golaud.  Don't  you  understand  me?  Won't  you 
understand  me?  It  seems  to  me  .  ,  It  seems 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE       117 

"to  me  ...  Well,  it  is  this :  I  ask  you  whether 
you  loved  him  with  a  forbidden  love  ?  .  .  .  Did 
you  .  .  .  were  you  guilty?  Tell  me;  tell  me, 
yes,  yes,  yes?  .  .  . 

Melts ande.  No,  no ;  we  were  not  guilty.  Why  do 
you  ask  me  that? 

Golaud.  Melisande!  .  .  .  tell  me  the  truth,  for 
the  love  of  God! 

Melisande.    Why  have  I  not  told  you  the  truth? 

Golaud.    Do  not  lie  thus  in  the  hour  of  death ! 

Melisande.    Who  is  going  to  die? — Is  it  I? 

Golaud.  You,  you !  and  I,  I  too,  after  you !  .  .  . 
And  we  must  have  the  truth  .  .  .  We  must  at 
last  have  the  truth,  do  you  hear?  .  .  .  Tell  me 
all !  Tell  me  all !  I  forgive  you  all !  .  .  . 

Melisande.  Why  am  I  going  to  die?  I  did  not 
know  .  .  . 

Golaud.  You  know  it  now!  ...  It  is  time!  It 
is  time !  Quick !  Quick !  .  .  .  The  truth !  the 
truth!  .  .  . 

Melisande.    The  truth  .  .   .  the  truth  .   .  . 

Golaud.  Where  are  you?  Melisande!  Where  are 
you  ?  This  is  not  natural !  Melisande  !  Where  are 
you?  Where  are  you  going?  [Perceiving  Ar- 
ke'l  and  the  Doctor  at  the  door  of  the  room.] 
Yes,  yes;  you  can  come  in  ...  I  know  noth- 
ing; it  is  useless  ...  It  is  too  late;  she  is  al- 
ready too  far  from  us  ...  I  shall  never  know ! 
...  I  shall  die  here  like  a  blind  man!  .  .  . 

Arkel.  What  have  you  done?  You  will  kill 
her  . 


n8       PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

Golaud.    I  have  already  killed  her  .  .  . 

Arkel.    Melisande  .  .  . 

Melisande.    Is  that  you,  grandfather? 

Arkel.    Yes,  my  daughter  .  .  .  What  would  you 

like  me  to  do? 

Melisande.    Is  it  true  that  winter  is  here? 
Arkel.     Why  do  you  ask  it? 
Melisande.     Because  it  is  cold  and  there  are  no 

leaves  left  .  .  . 
Arkel.    Are  you  cold? — Would  you  like  to  have 

the  windows  shut? 
Melisande.    No,  no  ...  not  until  the  sun  is  deep 

in  the  sea. — He  is  going  down  slowly;  then  it 

is  true  that  winter  has  begun? 
Arkel.     Yes. — Don't  you  like  the  winter? 
Melisande.    Oh !  no.    I  am  frightened  of  the  cold. 

— I  am  so  frightened  of  the  great  cold  .  .  . 
Arkel.     Do  you  feel  better? 
Melisande.     Yes,  yes;  I  no  longer  feel  all  those 

anxieties  .  .  . 

Arkel.    Would  you  like  to  see  your  child? 
Melisande.    What  child? 
Arkel.    Your  child. — You  are  a  mother  .  .  .  You 

have  brought  a  little  girl  into  the  world  .  .  . 
Melisande.    Where  is  she? 
Arkel.    Here  .  .  . 
Melisande.     It  is  strange  ...  I  cannot  lift  my 

arms  to  take  her  .  .  . 
Arkel.     That  is  because  you  are  still  very  weak 

.  .   .   I  will  hold  her  myself ;  look  .   .  . 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE       119 

Melisande.  She  is  not  smiling  .  .  .  She  is  little 
.  .  .  She  is  going  to  cry  too  ...  I  pity  her 
.  .  .  [The  room  is  invaded,  little  by  little,  by 
the  maid-servants,  who  range  themselves  in  si- 
lence along  the  walls  and  wait.~\ 

Golaud  [rising  abruptly].  What  is  it? — What 
are  all  these  women  doing  here?  .  .  . 

The  Doctor.    They  are  the  servants  .  .  . 

Arkel.    Who  called  for  them? 

The  Doctor.    It  was  not  I  ... 

Golaud.  Why  have  you  come  here? — Nobody 
asked  for  you  .  .  .  What  are  you  doing  here? 
— But  what  is  it  then? — Answer!  .  .  .  [The 
servants  answer  nothing.~\ 

Arkel.  Don't  speak  too  loud  .  .  .  She  is  going 
to  sleep;  she  has  closed  her  eyes  .  .  . 

Golaud.    This  is  not  .  .  .    ? 

The  Doctor.    No,  no;  see,  she  breathes  .   .  . 

Arkel.  Her  eyes  are  full  of  tears. — It  is  now  her 
soul  that  weeps  .  .  .  Why  is  she  spreading  out 
her  arms? — What  does  she  want? 

The  Doctor.  It  is  towards  the  child,  no  doubt. 
It  is  the  mother's  struggle  against  .  .  . 

Golaud.  Now? — now? — You  must  say  it,  speak! 
speak!  .  .  . 

The  Doctor.     Perhaps. 

Golaud.  At  once?  ...  Oh!  Oh!  I  must  tell 
her  .  .  .  Melisande!  Melisande!  .  .  .  Leave 
me!  leave  me  alone  with  her!  .  .  . 

Arkel.     No,  no;  come  no  nearer  .  .  .  Do  not 


120      PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE 

trouble  her  .  .  .  Do  not  speak  to  her  again 
.  .  .  You  know  not  what  the  soul  is  ... 

Golaud.    It  is  not  my  fault  ...   It  is  not  my  fault. 

Arkel.  Hush  .  .  .  Hush  .  .  .  We  must  speak  in 
whispers,  now. — We  must  trouble  her  no  more 
.  .  .  The  human  soul  is  very  silent  .  .  .  The 
human  soul  likes  to  slip  away  in  solitude  ...  It 
suffers  so  timidly  .  .  .  But  the  sadness,  Golaud 
.  .  .  but  the  sadness  of  all  that  one  sees !  .  .  . 
Oh!  oh!  oh!  .  .  .  [Here  all  the  servants  fall 
suddenly  on  to  their  knees  at  the  end  of  the 
room.] 

Arkel  [turning].    What  is  it? 

The  Doctor  [approaching  the  bed  and  touching 
the  body].  They  are  right  .  .  .  [Long  si- 
lence.] 

Arkel.     I  saw  nothing. — Are  you  sure?  .  .  . 

The  Doctor.    Yes,  yes. 

Arkel.  I  heard  nothing  ...  So  swiftly,  so  swift- 
ly ...  All  at  once  .  .  .  She  has  gone  away 
without  a  word  .  .  . 

Golaud  [sobbing].    Oh!  oh!  oh! 

Arkel.  Do  not  stay  here,  Golaud  .  .  .  She  needs 
silence,  now  .  .  .  Come,  come  ...  It  is  ter- 
rible, but  it  is  not  your  fault  ...  It  was  a  little 
gentle  being,  so  quiet,  so  timid,  and  so  silent 
...  It  was  a  poor  little  mysterious  being,  like 
all  the  world  .  .  .  She  lies  there  as  if  she  were 
her  own  child's  big  sister  .  .  .  Come,  come 
.  .  .  O  God!  O  God!  ...  I  too  shall  under- 
stand  none  of  it  ...  Let  us  go  from  here. 


PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE       121 

Come;  the  child  must  not  stay  here,  in  this  room 
...  It  must  live  now,  in  her  stead  .  .  .  The 
poor  little  one's  turn  has  come  .  .  .  [Exeunt 
in  silence.] 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

[Translated  by  Alfred  Sutro] 


CHARACTERS 

TlNTAGILES 

YGRAINE        1  c.  £  -r-  .     M 

r>  >       f  Sisters  or  I  mtagiles 

BELLANGERE  J 

AGLOVALE 

THREE  SERVANTS  of  the  Queen 

The  Death  of  Tintagiles,  published  in  1894  together  with 
Alladine  and  Palomides  and  Interior  under  the  title  of  Three 
Little  Dramas  for  Marionettes,  is  the  author's  favourite,  and 
in  general  estimation  his  best,  play. 


THE 
DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 


ACT  I 

[On  the  top  of  a  hill  overlooking  the  castle."] 
[Enter  Ygraine,  holding  Tintagiles  by  the  hand.~\ 

Ygraine.  Your  first  night  will  be  sad,  Tintagiles. 
The  roar  of  the  sea  is  already  about  us;  and 
the  trees  are  moaning.  It  is  late.  The  moon  is 
sinking  behind  the  poplars  that  stifle  the  pal- 
ace .  .  .  We  are  alone,  perhaps;  but  here  one 
has  ever  to  be  on  one's  guard.  They  seem  to 
watch  lest  the  smallest  happiness  come  near.  I 
said  to  myself  one  day,  right  down  in  the  depths 
of  my  soul — and  God  himself  could  scarcely 
hear; — I  said  to  myself  one  day  that  I  was  feel- 
ing almost  happy  .  .  .  There  needed  nothing 
more;  and  very  soon  after,  our  old  father  died, 
and  our  two  brothers  disappeared,  and  not  a 
living  creature  can  tell  us  where  they  are.  I 
am  here  all  alone,  with  my  poor  sister  and  you, 
my  little  Tintagiles;  and  I  have  no  confidence 
in  the  future  .  .  .  Come  to  me;  let  me  take 
you  on  my  knees.  First  kiss  me;  and  put  your 
little  arms — there — right  round  my  neck  .  .  . 
perhaps  they  will  not  be  able  to  unfasten  them 
127 


128    THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

.  .  .  Do  you  remember  the  time  when  it  was  I 
who  carried  you  in  the  evening,  when  the  hour 
had  come ;  and  how  frightened  you  were  at  the 
shadows  of  my  lamp  in  the  corridors,  those 
long  corridors  with  not  a  single  window?  I 
felt  my  soul  tremble  on  my  lips  when  I  saw 
you  again,  suddenly,  this  morning  ...  I 
thought  you  were  so  far  away  and  in  safety 
.  .  .  Who  made  you  come  here? 

Tintaglles.     I  do  not  know,  little  sister. 

Ygraine.    Do  you  remember  what  they  said? 

Tintagiles.    They  said  I  must  go  away. 

Ygraine.     But  why  had  you  to  go  away? 

Tintagiles.     Because  the  Queen  wished  it. 

Ygraine.  Did  they  not  say  why  she  wished  it? — 
I  am  sure  they  must  have  said  many  things. 

Tintagiles.    Little  sister,  I  did  not  hear. 

Ygraine.  When  they  spoke  among  themselves, 
what  was  it  they  said? 

Tintagiles.  Little  sister,  they  dropped  their  voices 
when  they  spoke. 

Ygraine.     All  the  time? 

Tintagiles.  All  the  time,  sister  Ygraine;  except 
when  they  looked  at  me. 

Ygraine.    Did  they  say  nothing  about  the  Queen? 

Tintagiles.  They  said,  sister  Ygraine,  that  no  one 
ever  saw  her. 

Ygraine.  And  the  people  who  were  with  you  on 
the  ship,  did  they  say  nothing? 

Tintagiles.  They  gave  all  their  time  to  the  wind 
and  the  sails,  sister  Ygraine. 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES    129 

Ygraine.  Ah!  .  .  .  That  does  not  surprise  me, 
my  child  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.    They  left  me  all  alone,  little  sister. 

Ygraine.  Listen  to  me,  Tintagiles ;  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  know  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.    What  do  you  know,  sister  Ygraine  ? 

Ygraine.  Very  little,  my  child  .  .  .  My  sister 
and  I  have  gone  on  living  here  ever  since  we 
were  born,  not  daring  to  understand  the  things 
that  happened  ...  I  have  lived  a  long  time 
in  this  island,  and  I  might  as  well  have  been 
blind;  yet  it  all  seemed  natural  to  me  ...  A 
bird  that  flew,  a  leaf  that  trembled,  a  rose  that 
opened  .  .  .  these  were  events  to  me.  Such  si- 
lence has  always  reigned  here  that  a  ripe  fruit 
falling  in  the  park  would  draw  faces  to  the 
window  .  .  .  And  no  one  seemed  to  have  any 
suspicion  .  .  .  but  one  night  I  learned  that 
there  must  be  something  besides  ...  I  wished 
to  escape  and  I  could  not  .  .  .  Have  you  un- 
derstood what  I  am  telling  you? 

Tintagiles.  Yes,  yes,  little  sister;  I  can  under- 
stand anything  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  Then  let  us  not  talk  any  more  of  these 
things  .  .  .  one  does  not  know  .  .  .  Do  you 
see,  behind  the  dead  trees  which  poison  the  hori- 
zon, do  you  see  the  castle,  there,  right  down 
in  the  valley? 

Tintagiles.  I  see  something  very  black — is  that 
the  castle,  sister  Ygraine? 

Ygraine.     Yes,  it  is  very  black  ...  It  lies  far 


130    THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

down  amid  a  mass  of  gloomy  shadows  ...  It 
is  there  that  we  have  to  live  .  .  .  They  might 
have  built  it  on  the  top  of  the  great  mountains 
that  surround  it  ...  The  mountains  are  blue 
in  the  day-time  .  .  .  One  could  have  breathed. 
One  could  have  looked  down  on  the  sea  and 
on  the  plains  beyond  the  cliffs  .  .  .  But  they 
preferred  to  build  it  deep  down  in  the  valley; 
too  low  even  for  the  air  to  come  ...  It  is  fall- 
ing in  ruins,  and  no  one  troubles  .  .  .  The 
walls  are  crumbling:  it  might  be  fading  away 
in  the  gloom  .  .  .  There  is  only  one  tower 
which  time  does  not  touch  ...  It  is  enormous : 
and  its  shadow  is  always  on  the  house. 

Tintagiles.  They  are  lighting  something,  sister 
Ygraine  .  .  .  See,  see,  the  great  red  win- 
dows! .  .  . 

Ygraine.  They  are  the  windows  of  the  tower, 
Tintagiles ;  they  are  the  only  ones  in  which  you 
will  ever  see  light:  it  is  there  that  the  Queen 
has  her  throne. 

Tintagiles.     Shall  I  not  see  the  Queen? 

Ygraine.     No  one  can  see  her. 

Tintagiles.     Why  can  no  one  see  her? 

Ygraine.  Come  closer,  Tintagiles  .  .  .  Not  even 
a  bird  or  a  blade  of  grass  must  hear  us. 

Tintagiles.  There  is  no  grass,  little  sister  .  .  . 
[a  moment's  silence].  What  does  the  Queen 
do? 

Ygraine.  That  no  one  knows,  my  child.  She  is 
never  seen  .  .  .  She  lives  there,  all  alone  in 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES    131 

the  tower;  and  those  who  wait  on  her  do  not 
go  out  by  daylight  .  .  .  She  is  very  old ;  she  is 
the  mother  of  our  mother,  and  she  wishes  to 
reign  alone  .  .  .  She  is  suspicious  and  jealous, 
and  they  say  she  is  mad  .  .  .  She  is  afraid  lest 
some  one  should  raise  himself  to  her  place;  and 
it  is  probably  because  of  this  fear  of  hers  that 
you  have  been  brought  hither  .  .  .  Her  orders 
are  carried  out:  but  no  one  knows  how  .  .  . 
She  never  leaves  the  tower,  and  all  the  gates  are 
closed  night  and  day  ...  I  have  never  seen 
her,  but  it  seems  others  have,  long  ago,  when 
she  was  young. 

Tintagiles.    Is  she  very  ugly,  sister  Ygraine  ? 

Ygraine.  They  say  she  is  not  beautiful,  and  that 
her  form  is  strange  .  .  .  But  those  who  have 
seen  her  dare  not  speak  of  her  .  .  .  And  who 
knows  whether  they  have  seen  her?  She  has  a 
power  which  we  do  not  understand,  and  we  live 
here  with  a  terrible  weight  on  our  soul  .  .  . 
You  must  not  be  unduly  frightened,  or  have  bad 
dreams;  we  will  watch  over  you,  little  Tinta- 
giles, and  no  harm  can  come  to  you;  but  do  not 
stray  far  from  me,  or  your  sister  Bellangere, 
or  our  old  master  Aglovale. 

Tintagiles.    Aglovale,  too,  sister  Ygraine? 

Ygraine.    Aglovale  too  ...  he  loves  us  ... 

Tintagelis.     He  is  so  old,  little  sister  1 

Ygraine.  He  is  old,  but  very  wise  .  .  .  He  is 
the  only  friend  we  have  left;  and  he  knows 
many  things  ...  It  is  strange;  she  made  you 


132    THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

come  here,  and  no  one  was  told  of  it  ...  I  do 
not  know  what  is  in  my  heart  ...  I  was  sor- 
rowful and  glad  to  know  that  you  were  far 
away,  beyond  the  sea  .  .  .  And  now  ...  I 
was  taken  by  surprise  ...  I  went  out  this 
morning  to  see  whether  the  sun  was  rising  over 
the  mountains ;  and  I  saw  you  on  the  threshold 
...  I  knew  you  at  once. 

Tintagiles.  No,  no,  little  sister;  it  was  I  who 
laughed  first  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  I  could  not  laugh  .  .  .  just  then  .  .  . 
You  will  understand  ...  It  is  time,  Tintagiles, 
and  the  wind  is  becoming  black  on  the  sea  .  .  . 
Kiss  me,  before  getting  up;  kiss  me,  harder, 
again,  again  .  .  .  You  do  not  know  how  one 
loves  .  .  .  Give  me  your  little  hand  ...  I 
will  keep  it  in  mine,  and  we  will  go  back  to  the 
old  sick  castle.  [They  go  out.] 


ACT  II 

[A  room  in  the  castle,  in  which  Aglovale  and 
Ygraine  are  seated.] 

[Enter  Bellangere.~\ 

Bellangere.     Where  is  Tintagiles? 

Ygraine.  He  is  here ;  do  not  speak  too  loud.  He 
is  asleep  in  the  other  room.  He  was  a  little 
pale,  he  did  not  seem  well.  The  journey  had 
tired  him — he  was  a  long  time  on  the  sea.  Or 
perhaps  it  is  the  atmosphere  of  the  castle  which 
has  alarmed  his  little  soul.  He  was  crying,  and 
did  not  know  why  he  cried.  I  nursed  him  on 
my  knees;  come,  look  at  him  .  .  .  He  is  asleep 
in  our  bed  .  .  .  He  sleeps  very  gravely,  with 
one  hand  on  his  brow,  like  a  little  sorrowful 
king  .  .  . 

Bellangere  [suddenly  bursting  into  tears].  Sister! 
Sister!  .  .  .  my  poor  sister!  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    Why  are  you  crying? 

Bellangere.  I  dare  not  tell  what  I  know  .  .  .  and 
I  am  not  sure  that  I  know  anything  .  .  .  but 
yet  I  have  heard — that  which  one  could  not 
hear  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    What  have  you  heard? 

Bellangere.  I  was  passing  close  to  the  corridors 
of  the  tower  .  .  . 

133 


134    THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

Ygraine.    Ah ! 

Bellangere.  One  of  the  doors  was  ajar.  I  pushed 
it  very  gently  ...  I  went  in  ... 

Ygraine.    Where? 

Bellangere.  I  had  never  seen  .  .  .  There  were 
other  corridors  lighted  with  lamps;  and  then 
low  galleries,  which  seemed  to  have  no  end 
...  I  knew  it  was  forbidden  to  go  farther 
...  I  was  afraid  and  was  about  to  turn  back, 
but  there  was  a  sound  of  voices  .  .  .  though 
one  could  scarcely  hear  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  It  must  have  been  the  servants  of  the 
Queen;  they  live  at  the  foot  of  the  tower  .  .  . 

Bellangere.  I  do  not  know  quite  what  it  was  .  .  . 
There  must  have  been  more  than  one  door  be- 
tween ;  and  the  voices  came  to  me  like  the  voice 
of  some  one  who  is  being  strangled  ...  I 
went  as  near  as  I  could  ...  I  am  not  sure  of 
anything:  but  I  believe  they  were  speaking  of  a 
child  who  had  arrived  to-day,  and  of  a  crown 
of  gold  .  .  .  They  seemed  to  be  laughing  .  .  . 

Ygraine.     They  were  laughing? 

Bellangere.  Yes,  I  think  they  were  laughing  .  .  . 
unless  it  was  that  they  were  crying,  or  that  it 
was  something  I  did  not  understand;  for  one 
heard  badly,  and  their  voices  were  low  .  .  . 
There  seemed  to  be  a  great  many  of  them  mov- 
ing about  in  the  vault  .  .  .  They  were  speaking 
of  the  child  that  the  Queen  wished  to  see  .  .  . 
They  will  probably  come  here  this  evening  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    What?  .  .  .  this  evening?  .  .  . 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES    135 

Bellangere.  Yes  .  .  .  yes  ...  I  think  so  ... 
yes  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    Did  they  not  mention  any  name  ? 

Bellangere.  They  spoke  of  a  child — a  little,  little 
child  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    There  is  no  other  child  here  .  .  . 

Bellangere.  Just  then  they  raised  their  voices  a 
little,  for  one  of  them  had  doubted  whether  the 
day  was  come  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  I  know  what  that  means,  and  it  will  not 
be  the  first  time  that  they  have  left  the  tower 
...  I  knew  only  too  well  why  she  made  him 
come  .  .  .  but  I  could  not  think  she  would 
show  such  haste  as  this!  .  .  .  We  shall  see 
.  .  .  there  are  three  of  us,  and  we  have  time 

Bellangere.    What  do  you  mean  to  do? 

Ygraine.  I  do  not  know  yet  what  I  shall  do,  but  I 
shall  surprise  her  ...  do  you  know  what  that 
means,  you  who  only  can  tremble?  ...  I  will 
tell  you  .  .  . 

Bellangere.     What? 

Ygraine.  She  shall  not  take  him  without  a  strug- 
gle .  .  . 

Bellangere.    We  are  alone,  sister  Ygraine  .   .  . 

Ygraine.  Ah!  it  is  true  we  are  alone  !  .  .  .  There 
is  only  one  thing  to  be  done,  and  it  never  fails 
us!  .  .  .  Let  us  wait  on  our  knees  as  we  did 
before  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  will  have  pity!  .  .  . 
She  allows  herself  to  be  moved  by  tears  .  .  . 
We  must  grant  her  everything  she  asks;  she  will 


136    THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

smile  perhaps;  and  it  is  her  habit  to  spare  all 
who  kneel  .  .  .  All  these  years  she  has  been 
there  in  her  enormous  tower,  devouring  those 
we  love,  and  not  a  single  one  has  dared  strike 
her  in  the  face  .  .  .  She  lies  on  our  soul  like 
the  stone  of  a  tomb,  and  no  one  dares  stretch 
out  his  arm  ...  In  the  times  when  there  were 
men  here,  they  too  were  afraid,  and  fell  upon 
their  faces  .  .  .  To-day  it  is  the  woman's  turn 
...  we  shall  see  ...  It  is  time  that  some  one 
should  dare  to  rise  .  .  .  No  one  knows  on 
what  her  power  rests,  and  I  will  no  longer  live 
in  the  shadow  of  her  tower  .  .  .  Go  away,  if 
you  two  can  only  tremble  like  this — go  away 
both  of  you,  and  leave  me  still  more  alone  .  .  . 
I  will  wait  for  her  .  .  . 

Bellangere.  Sister,  I  do  not  know  what  has  to  be 
done,  but  I  will  wait  with  you  .  .  . 

Aglovale.  I  too  will  wait,  my  daughter  .  .  .  My 
soul  has  long  been  ill  at  ease  .  .  .  You  will 
try  ...  we  have  tried  more  than  once  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    You  have  tried  .  .  .  you  also? 

Aglovale.  They  have  all  tried  .  .  .  But  at  the 
last  moment  their  strength  has  failed  them  .  .  . 
You  too,  you  shall  see  ...  If  she  were  to  com- 
mand me  to  go  up  to  her  this  very  evening,  I 
would  put  my  two  hands  together  and  say  noth- 
ing; and  my  weary  feet  would  climb  the  stair- 
case, without  lingering  and  without  hastening, 
though  I  know  full  well  that  none  come  down 
again  with  eyes  unclosed  .  .  .  There  is  no 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES    137 

courage  left  in  me  against  her  .  .  .  our  hands 
are  helpless,  and  can  touch  no  one  .  .  .  Other 
hands  than  these  are  wanted,  and  all  is  useless 
.  .  .  But  you  are  hopeful,  and  I  will  assist  you 
.  .  .  Close  the  doors,  my  child  .  .  .  Awak- 
en Tintagiles;  bare  your  little  arms  and  enfold 
him  within  them,  and  take  him  on  your  knees 
...  we  have  no  other  defence  . 


ACT  III 

[The  same  room.'] 
[Ygraine  and  Aglo<vale.~\ 

Ygraine.  I  have  been  to  look  at  the  doors.  There 
are  three  of  them.  We  will  watch  the  large 
one  .  .  .  The  two  others  are  low  and  heavy. 
They  are  never  opened.  The  keys  were  lost 
long  ago,  and  the  iron  bars  are  sunk  into  the 
walls.  Help  me  close  this  door;  it  is  heavier 
than  the  gate  of  a  city  ...  It  is  massive;  the 
lightning  itself  could  not  pierce  through  it  ... 
are  you  prepared  for  all  that  may  happen? 

Aglovale  [seating  himself  on  the  threshold].  I 
will  go  seat  myself  on  the  steps;  my  sword 
upon  my  knees  ...  I  do  not  think  this  is  the 
first  time  that  I  have  waited  and  watched  here, 
my  child;  and  there  are  moments  when  one 
does  not  understand  all  that  one  remembers 
...  I  have  done  all  this  before,  I  do  not  know 
when  .  .  .  but  I  have  never  dared  draw  my 
sword  .  .  .  Now,  it  lies  there  before  me, 
though  my  arms  no  longer  have  strength;  but 
I  intend  to  try  ...  It  is  perhaps  time  that 
men  should  defend  themselves,  even  though 
they  do  not  understand  .  .  .  [Bellangere,  car- 
rying Tintagiles  in  her  arms,  comes  out  of  the 
adjoining  room.] 

138 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES    139 

Bellangere.     He  was  awake  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    He  is  pale  .  .  .  what  ails  him? 

Bellangere.  I  do  not  know  ...  he  was  very  si- 
lent .  .  .  He  was  crying  .  .  . 

Ygraine.     Tintagiles  .  .  . 

Bellangere.    He  is  looking  away  from  you. 

Ygraine.  He  does  not  seem  to  know  me  .  .  . 
Tintagiles,  where  are  you? — It  is  your  sister 
who  speaks  to  you  .  .  .  What  are  you  looking 
at  so  fixedly? — Turn  round  .  .  .  come,  I  will 
play  with  you  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.     No  ...  no  ... 

Ygraine.    You  do  not  want  to  play? 

Tintagiles.     I  cannot  stand,  sister  Ygraine  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  You  cannot  stand?  .  .  .  Come,  come, 
what  is  the  matter  with  you? — Are  you  suffer- 
ing any  pain?  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.    Yes  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  Tell  me  where  it  is,  Tintagiles,  and  I 
will  cure  you  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.  I  cannot  tell,  sister  Ygraine  .  .  .  ev- 
erywhere .  .  . 

Ygraine.  Come  to  me,  Tintagiles  .  .  .  You  know 
that  my  arms  are  softer,  and  I  will  put  them 
around  you,  and  you  will  feel  better  at  once 
.  .  .  Give  him  to  me,  Bellangere  .  .  .  He 
shall  sit  on  my  knee,  and  the  pain  will  go  ... 
There,  you  see?  .  .  .  Your  big  sisters  are  here 
.  .  .  They  are  close  to  you  .  .  .  we  will  de- 
fend you,  and  no  evil  can  come  near  .  .  . 


140    THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

Tintagiles.  It  has  come,  sister  Ygraine — Why  is 
there  no  light,  sister  Ygraine  ? 

Ygraine.  There  is  a  light,  my  child  .  .  .  Do  you 
not  see  the  lamp  that  hangs  from  the  rafters? 

Tint  ay  lies.  Yes,  yes  ...  It  is  not  large  .  .  . 
Are  there  no  others? 

Ygraine.  Why  should  there  be  others  ?  We  can 
see  what  we  have  to  see  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.    Ah!  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    Oh !  your  eyes  are  deep  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.    So  are  yours,  sister  Ygraine  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  I  did  not  notice  it  this  morning  ...  I 
have  just  seen  in  your  eyes  .  .  .  We  do  not 
quite  know  what  the  soul  thinks  it  sees  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.  I  have  not  seen  the  soul,  sister 
Ygraine  .  .  .  But  why  is  Aglovale  on  the 
threshold? 

Ygraine.  He  is  resting  a  little  .  .  .  He  wanted 
to  kiss  you  before  going  to  bed  ...  he  was 
waiting  for  you  to  wake  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.    What  has  he  on  his  knees? 

Ygraine.  On  his  knees?  I  see  nothing  on  his 
knees  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.    Yes,  yes,  there  is  something  .  .  . 

Aglovale.  It  is  nothing,  my  child  ...  I  was 
looking  at  my  old  sword;  and  I  scarcely  recog- 
nise it  ...  It  has  served  me  many  years,  but 
for  a  long  time  past  I  have  lost  confidence  in 
it,  and  I  think  it  is  going  to  break  .  .  .  Here, 
just  by  the  hilt,  there  is  a  little  stain  ...  I  had 
noticed  that  the  steel  was  growing  paler,  and  I 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES    141 

asked  myself  ...  I  do  not  remember  what  I 
asked  myself  .  .  .  My  soul  is  very  heavy  to- 
day .  .  .  What  is  one  to  do?  .  .  .  Men  must 
needs  live  and  await  the  unforeseen  .  .  .  And 
after  that  they  must  still  act  as  if  they  hoped 
.  .  .  There  are  sad  evenings  when  our  useless 
lives  taste  bitter  in  our  mouths,  and  we  would 
like  to  close  our  eyes  ...  It  is  late,  and  I  am 
tired  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.    He  has  wounds,  sister  Ygraine. 

Ygraine.     Where  ? 

Tintagiles.     On  his  forehead  and  on  his  hands 

Aglovale.  Those  are  very  old  wounds,  from 
which  I  suffer  no  longer,  my  child  .  .  .  The 
light  must  be  falling  on  them  this  evening  .  .  . 
You  had  not  noticed  them  before? 

Tintagiles.    He  looks  sad,  sister  Ygraine  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    No,  no,  he  is  not  sad,  but  very  weary 

Tintagiles.    You  too  are  sad,  sister  Ygraine  .  .  . 
Ygraine.    Why  no,  why  no ;  look  at  me,  I  am  smil- 
ing .  .  . 

Tintagiles.    And  my  other  sister  too  .  .  . 
Ygraine.     Oh  no,  she  too  is  smiling. 
Tintagiles.    No,  that  is  not  a  smile  ...  I  know 

Ygraine.    Come,  kiss  me,  and  think  of  something 

else  .  .  .   [She  kisses  him.~\ 
Tintagiles.    Of  what  shall  I  think,  sister  Ygraine  ? 

— Why  do  you  hurt  me  when  you  kiss  me? 


1 42    THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

Ygraine.    Did  I  hurt  you  ? 

Tintagiles.  Yes  ...  I  do  not  know  why  I  hear 
your  heart  beat,  sister  Ygraine  .  .  . 

Ygraine.     Do  you  hear  it  beat? 

Tintagiles.  Oh !  Oh !  it  beats  as  though  it  wanted 
to  ... 

Ygraine.    What? 

Tintagiles.    I  do  not  know,  sister  Ygraine. 

Ygraine.  It  is  wrong  to  be  frightened  without 
reason,  and  to  speak  in  riddles  .  .  .  Oh !  your 
eyes  are  full  of  tears  .  .  .  Why  are  you  un- 
happy? I  hear  your  heart  beating,  now  .  .  . 
people  always  hear  them  when  they  hold  one 
another  so  close.  It  is  then  that  the  heart 
speaks  and  says  things  that  the  tongue  does 
not  know  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.     I  heard  nothing  before  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  That  was  because  .  .  .  Oh,  but  your 
heart!  .  .  .  What  is  the  matter?  ...  It  is 
bursting!  .  .  . 

Tintagiles  [crying].  Sister  Ygraine!  sister 
Ygraine  I  . 

Ygraine.     What  is  it? 

Tintagiles.  I  have  heard  .  .  .  They  .  .  .  they 
are  coming! 

Ygraine.  Who?  Who  are  coming?  .  .  .  What 
has  happened?  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.  The  door!  The  door!  They  were 
there !  .  .  .  [He  falls  backwards  on  to 
Ygraine's  knees. ~\ 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES    143 

Ygraine.  What  is  it?  .  .  .  He  has  ...  he  has 
fainted  .  .  . 

Bellangere.  Take  care  .  .  .  take  care  .  .  .  He 
will  fall  .  .  . 

Aglovale  {rising  brusquely,  his  sword  in  his  hand]. 
I  too  can  hear  .  .  .  there  are  steps  in  the  cor- 
ridor. 

Ygraine.  Oh!  .  .  .  \_A  moment's  silence — they 
all  listen.] 

Aglovale.  Yes,  I  hear  .  .  .  There  is  a  crowd  of 
them  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    A  crowd  ...  a  crowd  .  .  .  how? 

Aglovale.  I  do  not  know  .  .  .  one  hears  and  one 
does  not  hear  .  .  .  They  do  not  move  like 
other  creatures,  but  they  come  .  .  .  They  are 
touching  the  door  .  .  . 

Ygraine  [clasping  Tintagiles  in  her  arms],  Tin- 
tagiles!  .  .  .  Tintagiles!  .  .  . 

Bellangere  [embracing  him].  Let  me,  tool  let 
me !  ...  Tintagiles ! 

Aglovale.  They  are  shaking  the  door  .  .  .  listen 
...  do  not  breathe  .  .  .  They  are  whisper- 
ing .  .  .  \_A  key  is  heard  turning  harshly  in  the 
lock.] 

Ygraine.     They  have  the  key! 

Aglovale.  Yes  .  .  .  yes  ...  I  was  sure  of  it 
.  .  .  Wait  .  .  .  [He  plants  himself,  with 
sword  outstretched,  on  the  last  step.  To  the 
two  sisters.]  Come!  come  both!  .  .  .  [Fora 
moment  there  is  silence.  The  door  opens  slow- 
ly. Aglovale  thrusts  his  sword  wildly  through 


144    THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

the  opening,  driving  the  point  between  the 
beams.  The  sword  breaks  with  a  loud  report 
under  the  silent  pressure  of  the  timber,  and  the 
pieces  of  steel  roll  down  the  steps  with  a  re- 
sounding clang.  Ygraine  leaps  up,  carrying  in 
her  arms  Tintagiles,  who  has  fainted;  and  she, 
Bellangere,  and  Aglovale,  putting  forth  all 
their  strength,  try,  but  in  vain,  to  close  the  door, 
which  slowly  opens  wider  and  wider,  although 
no  one  can  be  seen  or  heard.  Only  a  cold  and 
calm  light  penetrates  into  the  room.  At  this 
moment  Tintagiles,  suddenly  stretching  out  his 
limbs,  regains  consciousness,  sends  forth  a  long 
cry  of  deliverance,  and  embraces  his  sister — 
and  at  this  very  instant  the  door,  which  resists 
no  longer,  falls  to  brusquely  under  their  pres- 
sure, which  they  have  not  had  time  to  stop.] 

Ygraine.  Tintagiles !  [  They  look  with  amaze- 
ment at  each  other.] 

Aglovale  [waiting  at  the  door'].  I  hear  nothing 
now  .  .  . 

Ygraine  [wild  with  joy].  Tintagiles!  Tintagiles! 
Look!  Look!  .  .  .  He  is  saved!  .  .  .  Look 
at  his  eyes  .  .  .  you  can  see  the  blue  .  .  .  He 
is  going  to  speak  .  .  .  They  saw  we  were 
watching  .  .  .  They  did  not  dare  .  .  .  Kiss 
us!  ...  Kiss  us,  I  say!  .  .  .  Kiss  us!  .  .  . 
All !  all !  .  .  .  Down  to  the  depth  of  our  soul ! 
.  .  .  [All  four,  their  eyes  full  of  tears,  fall  into 
each  other's  arms.] 


ACT  IV 

\_A  corridor  in  front  of  the  room  in  which  the  last 
Act  took  place.'] 

[Three  Servants  of  the  Queen  enter.  They  are 
all  veiled,  and  their  long  black  robes  flow  down 
to  the  ground J\ 

First  Servant  [listening  at  the  door~\.     They  are 

watching  .  .   . 

Second  Servant.    We  need  not  have  waited  .  .  . 
Third  Servant.     She  prefers  that  it  should  be 

done  in  silence  .  .  . 
First  Servant.     I  knew  that  they  must  fall  asleep 

Second  Servant.    Quick !   .  .  .  open  the  door  .  .  . 
Third  Servant.     It  is  time  .   .  . 
First    Servant.      Wait    there  ...  I    will    enter 
alone.     There  is  no  need  for  three  of  us  ... 
Second  Servant.     You  are  right;  he  is  very  small 

Third  Servant.     You  must  be  careful  with  the 

elder  sister  .  .  . 
Second  Servant.     Remember  the  Queen  does  not 

want  them  to  know  .  .  . 
First  Servant.    Have  no  fear;  people  seldom  hear 

my  coming  .   .   . 

Second  Servant.     Go  in  then;  it  is  time.      \_The 

i45 


i46    THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

First  Servant  opens   the  door  cautiously   and 
goes  into  the  room.]     It  is  close  on  midnight 

Third  Servant.     Ah  I  .  .  .   [A  moment's  silence. 

The  First  Servant  comes  out  of  the  room.] 
Second  Servant.    Where  is  he  ? 
First  Servant.     He  is  asleep  between  his  sisters. 

His  arms  are  around  their  necks;   and  their 

arms  enfold  him  ...  I  cannot  do  it  alone  .  .  . 
Second  Servant.    I  will  help  you  .  .  . 
Third  Servant.     Yes ;  do  you  go  together  ...  I 

will  keep  watch  here  .  .  . 
First  Servant.     Be  careful;  they  seem  to  know 

.  .  .  They  were  all  three  struggling  with  a  bad 

dream  .  .  .   \The   two   Servants  go   into   the 

room.] 
Third  Servant.    People  always  know ;  but  they  do 

not  understand  ...[//  moment's  silence.   The 

First  and  Second  Servants  come  out  of  the  room 

again, .] 

Third  Servant.     Well? 
Second  Servant.     You  must  come  too  ...  we 

cannot  separate  them  .   .  . 
First  Servant.     No  sooner  do  we  unclasp  their 

arms  than  they  fall  back  around  the  child  .  .  . 
Second  Servant.    And  the  child  nestles  closer  and 

closer  to  them  .  .  . 
First  Servant.     He  is  lying  with  his  forehead  on 

the  elder  sister's  heart  .  .  . 
Second  Servant.    And  his  head  rises  and  falls  on 

her  bosom  . 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES    147 

First  Servant.    We  shall  not  be  able  to  open  his 

hands  .  .  . 
Second  Servant.     They  are  plunged  deep  down 

into  his  sisters'  hair  .   .  . 
First  Servant.    He  holds  one  golden  curl  between 

his  little  teeth  .  .   . 
Second  Servant.    We  shall  have  to  cut  the  elder 

sister's  hair. 
First  Servant.    And  the  other  sister's  too,  you  will 

see  .   .  . 

Second  Servant.     Have  you  your  scissors? 
Third  Servant.     Yes  .  .   . 
First  Servant.     Come  quickly;  they  have  begun  to 

move  .   .  . 
Second  Servant.     Their  hearts  and  their  eyelids 

are  throbbing  together  .   .  . 
First  Servant.     Yes;  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 

elder  girl's  blue  eyes  .  .  . 
Second  Servant.    She  looked  at  us  but  did  not  see 

us  ... 
First  Servant.     If  one  touches  one  of  them,  the 

other  two  tremble  .  .  . 
Second  Servant.     They  are  trying  hard,  but  they 

cannot  stir  .  .  . 
First  Servant.    The  elder  sister  wishes  to  scream, 

but  she  cannot  .  .  . 
Second  Servant.      Come   quickly;   they   seem   to 

know  .  .  . 

Third  Servant.     Where  is  the  old  man? 
First  Servant.     He   is   asleep — away   from   the 

others  . 


148    THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

Second  Servant.  He  sleeps,  his  forehead  resting 
on  the  hilt  of  his  sword  .  .  . 

First  Servant.  He  knows  of  nothing;  and  he  has 
no  dreams  .  .  . 

Third  Servant.    Come,  come,  we  must  hasten  .  .  . 

First  Servant.  You  will  find  it  difficult  to  separate 
their  limbs  .  .  . 

Second  Servant.  They  are  clutching  at  each  other 
as  though  they  were  drowning. 

Third  Servant.  Come,  come  ....  \Theygoin, 
The  silence  is  broken  only  by  sighs  and  low 
murmurs  of  suffering,  held  in  thrall  by  sleep. 
Then  the  three  Servants  emerge  very  hurried- 
ly from  the  gloomy  room.  One  of  them  carries 
Tintagiles,  who  is  fast  asleep,  in  her  arms. 
From  his  little  hands,  twitching  in  sleep,  and 
his  mouth,  drawn  in  agony,  a  glittering  stream 
of  golden  tresses,  ravished  from  the  heads  of 
his  sisters,  flows  down  to  the  ground.  The  Ser- 
vants hurry  on.  There  is  perfect  silence;  but  no 
sooner  have  they  reached  the  end  of  the  corri- 
dor than  Tintagiles  awakes,  and  sends  forth  a 
cry  of  supreme  distress.] 

Tintagiles  [from  the  end  of  the  corridor].  Aah! 
.  .  .  [There  is  again  silence.  Then  from  the 
adjoining  room  the  two  sisters  are  heard  mov- 
ing about  restlessly.] 

Ygraine  [in  the  room].  Tintagiles!  .  .  .  where 
is  he? 

Bellangere.     He  is  not  here  .  .  . 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES    149 

Ygraine  [with  growing  anguish].  Tintagiles! 
...  a  lamp,  a  lamp !  .  .  .  Light  it ! 

Bellangere.  Yes  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  [Ygraine  is  seen 
coming  out  of  the  room  with  the  lighted  lamp 
in  her  hand.] 

Ygraine.    The  door  is  wide  open ! 

The  voice  of  Tintagiles  [almost  inaudible  in  the 
distance].  Sister  Ygraine! 

Ygraine.  He  calls!  .  .  .  He  calls!  .  .  .  Tinta- 
giles !  Tintagiles !  .  .  .  [She  rushes  into  the 
corridor.  Bellangere  tries  to  follow,  but  falls 
fainting  on  the  threshold.] 


ACT  V 

[Before  a  great  iron  door  in  a  gloomy 

{Enter  Ygraine,  haggard  and  dishevelled,  with  a 
lamp  in  her  handJ\ 

Ygraine  [turning  wildly  to  and  fro~\.  They  have 
not  followed  me!  .  .  .  Bellangere!  .  .  .  Bel- 
langere! .  .  .  Aglovale!  .  .  .  Where  are 
they? — They  said  they  loved  him  and  they 
leave  me  alone !  .  .  .  Tintagiles  1  ...  Tinta- 
giles!  .  .  .  Oh!  I  remember  ...  I  have 
climbed  steps  without  number,  between  great 
pitiless  walls,  and  my  heart  bids  me  live  no 
longer  .  .  .  These  vaults  seem  to  move  .  .  . 
[She  supports  herself  against  the  pillars. ]  I 
am  falling  .  .  .  Oh !  oh !  my  poor  life !  I  can 
feel  it  ...  It  is  trembling  on  my  lips — it  wants 
to  depart  ...  I  know  not  what  I  have  done 
...  I  have  seen  nothing,  I  have  heard  nothing 
.  .  .  Oh,  this  silence !  .  .  .  All  along  the  steps 
and  all  along  the  walls  I  found  these  golden 
curls;  and  I  followed  them.  I  picked  them  up 
.  .  .  Oh!  oh!  they  are  very  pretty!  .  .  .  Little 
childie  .  .  .  little  childie  .  .  .  what  was  I  say- 
ing? I  remember  ...  I  do  not  believe  in  it 
.  .  .  When  one  sleeps  .  .  .  All  that  has  no 
importance  and  is  not  possible  ...  Of  what 
150 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES    151 

am  I  thinking?  ...  I  do  not  know  .  .  .  One 
awakes,  and  then  .  .  .  After  all — come,  after 
all — I  must  think  this  out  .  .  .  Some  say  one 
thing,  some  say  the  other;  but  the  way  of  the 
soul  is  quite  different.  When  the  chain  is  re- 
moved, there  is  much  more  than  one  knows  .  .  . 
I  came  here  with  my  little  lamp  ...  It  did  not 
go  out,  in  spite  of  the  wind  on  the  staircase 
.  .  .  And  then,  what  is  one  to  think?  There 
are  so  many  things  which  are  vague  .  .  . 
There  must  be  people  who  know  them ;  but  why 
do  they  not  speak?  [She  looks  around  her.] 
I  have  never  seen  all  this  before  ...  It  is 
difficult  to  get  so  far — and  it  is  all  forbidden 
.  .  .  How  cold  it  is  ...  And  so  dark  that  one 
is  afraid  to  breathe  .  .  .  They  say  there  is 
poison  in  these  gloomy  shadows  .  .  .  That 
door  looks  very  terrible  .  .  .  [She  goes  up  to 
the  door  and  touches  it.]  Oh!  how  cold  it  is 
...  It  is  of  iron  .  .  .  solid  iron — and  there 
is  no  lock  .  .  .  How  can  they  open  it?  I  see 
no  hinges  ...  I  suppose  it  is  sunk  into  the 
wall  .  .  .  This  is  as  far  as  one  can  go  ... 
There  are  no  more  steps.  [Suddenly  sending 
forth  a  terrible  shriek.]  Ah!  .  .  .  more 
golden  hair  between  the  panels!  .  .  .  Tinta- 
giles !  Tintagiles  !  .  .  .  I  heard  the  door  close 
just  now  ...  I  remember!  I  remember! 
...  It  must  be !  [She  beats  frantically  against 
the  door  with  hands  and  feet.]  Oh,  monster! 
monster!  It  is  here  that  I  find  you!  .  .  .  Lis- 


152    THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

ten!     I  blaspheme!     I  blaspheme  and  spit  on 

you !     [Feeble  knocks  are  heard  from  the  other 

side  of  the  door:  then  the  voice  of  Tintagiles 

'penetrates  'very  feebly  through  the  iron  panels.'] 
Tintagiles.  Sister  Ygraine,  sister  Ygraine!  .  .  . 
Ygraine.  Tintagiles!  .  .  .  What!  .  .  .  what! 

.  .  .  Tintagiles,  is  it  you?  .  .  . 
Tintagiles.       Quick,     open,     open!  .  .  .  She     is 

here!  .  .  . 
Ygraine.     Oh!  oh!  ...  Who?     Tintagiles,  my 

little    Tintagiles  .  .  .  can  you  hear  me?  .  .  . 

What  is  it?  ...  What  has  happened?  .  .  . 

Tintagiles!  .  .  .  Have    they   hurt   you?  .  .  . 

Where  are  you?  .  .  .  Are  you  there?  .  .  . 
Tintagiles.     Sister  Ygraine,  sister  Ygraine!  .  .  . 

Open  for  me — or  I  shall  die  .  .  . 
Ygraine.    I  will  try — wait,  wait  ...  I  will  open 

it,  I  will  open  it  ... 
Tintagiles.     But  you   do   not  understand!  .  .  . 

Sister  Ygraine !  .  .  .  There  is  no  time  to  lose ! 

.  .  .  She  tried  to  hold  me  back!  ...  I  struck 

her,  struck  her  ...  I  ran  .  .  .  Quick,  quick, 

she  is  coming! 

Ygraine.    Yes,  yes  .  .  .  where  is  she? 
Tintagiles.     I  can  see  nothing  .  .  .  but  I  hear 

.  .  .  oh,   I   am   afraid,    sister  Ygraine,    I   am 

afraid  .  .  .  Quick,   quick !  .  .  .  Quick,   open ! 

...  for  the  dear  Lord's  sake,  sister  Ygraine ! 

Ygraine  [anxiously  groping  along  the  door~\.     I 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES    153 

am  sure  to  find  it  ...  Wait  a  little  ...  a 
minute  ...  a  second  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.  I  cannot,  sister  Ygraine  ...  I  can 
feel  her  breath  on  me  now  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  It  is  nothing,  Tintagiles,  my  little  Tin- 
tagiles; do  not  be  frightened  ...  if  I  could 
only  see  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.  Oh,  but  you  can  see — I  can  see  your 
lamp  from  here  ...  It  is  quite  light  where  you 
are,  sister  Ygraine  .  .  .  Here  I  can  see  noth- 
ing .  .  . 

Ygraine.  You  see  me,  Tintagiles?  How  can 
you  see?  There  is  not  a  crack  in  the  door  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.    Yes,  yes,  there  is;  but  it  is  so  small! 

Ygraine.  On  which  side?  Is  it  here?  .  .  .  tell 
me,  tell  me  .  .  .  or  is  it  over  there? 

Tintagiles.  It  is  here  .  .  .  Listen,  listen!  .  .  . 
I  am  knocking  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    Here  ? 

Tintagiles.  Higher  up  ...  But  it  is  so  small! 
...  A  needle  could  not  go  through!  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    Do  not  be  afraid,  I  am  here  .  .   . 

Tintagiles.  Oh,  I  know,  sister  Ygraine!  .  .  . 
Pull!  pull!  You  must  pull!  She  is  coming! 
...  if  you  could  only  open  a  little  ...  a  very 
little  ...  I  am  so  small! 

Ygraine.  My  nails  are  broken,  Tintagiles  ...  I 
have  pulled,  I  have  pushed,  I  have  struck  with 
all  my  might — with  all  my  might !  [She  strikes 
again,  and  tries  to  shake  the  massive  door.~\ 


154    THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

Two  of  my  fingers  are  numbed  .  .  .  Do  not 
cry  ...  It  is  of  iron  .  .  . 

Tintagiles  [sobbing  in  despair].  You  have  noth- 
ing to  open  with,  sister  Ygraine?  .  .  .  nothing 
at  all,  nothing  at  all?  ...  I  could  get  through 
...  I  am  so  small,  so  very  small  .  .  .  you 
know  how  small  I  am  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  I  have  only  my  lamp,  Tintagiles  .  .  . 
There !  there !  [She  aims  repeated  blows  at  the 
gate  with  her  earthenware  lamp,  which  goes  out 
and  breaks,  the  pieces  falling  to  the  ground. ~\ 
Oh!  ...  It  has  all  grown  dark!  .  .  .  Tinta- 
giles, where  are  you?  .  .  .  Oh!  listen,  listen! 
.  .  .  Can  you  not  open  from  the  inside?  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.  No,  no;  there  is  nothing  ...  I  can- 
not feel  anything  at  all  ...  I  cannot  see  the 
light  through  the  crack  any  more  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  What  is  the  matter,  Tintagiles  ?  .  .  .  I 
can  scarcely  hear  you  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.  Little  sister,  sister  Ygraine  ...  It 
is  too  late  now  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  What  is  it,  Tintagiles?  .  .  .  Where 
are  you  going? 

Tintagiles.  She  is  here !  .  .  .  Oh,  I  am  so  weak. 
Sister  Ygraine,  sister  Ygraine  ...  I  feel  her 
on  me!  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    Whom?  .  .  .  whom?  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.  I  do  not  know  ...  I  cannot  see 
.  .  .  But  it  is  too  late  now  .  .  .  She  .  .  .  she 
is  taking  me  by  the  throat  .  .  .  Her  hand  is 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES    155 

at  my  throat  .  .  .  Oh,  oh,  sister  Ygraine,  come 
to  me!  .  .  . 

Ygraine.    Yes,  yes  .  .  . 

Tintagiles.    It  is  so  dark  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  Struggle — fight — tear  her  to  pieces! 
.  .  .  Do  not  be  afraid  .  .  .  Wait  a  moment! 
...  I  am  here  .  .  .  Tintagiles?  .  .  .  Tinta- 
giles !  answer  me !  .  .  .  Help !!!...  where 
are  you?  ...  I  will  come  to  you  .  .  .  kiss  me 
.  .  .  through  the  door  .  .  .  here — here. 

Tintagiles  [very  feebly~\.  Here  .  .  .  here  .  .  . 
sister  Ygraine  .  .  . 

Ygraine.  I  am  putting  my  kisses  on  this  spot  here, 
do  you  understand?  Again,  again! 

Tintagiles  [more  and  more  feebly].  Mine  too — 
here  .  .  .  sister  Ygraine !  Sister  Ygraine ! 
.  .  .  Oh!  [The  fall  of  a  little  body  is  heard 
behind  the  Iron  door.] 

Ygraine.  Tintagiles!  .  .  .  Tintagiles!  .  .  .  What 
have  you  done?  .  .  .  Give  him  back,  give  him 
back!  .  .  .  for  the  love  of  God,  give  him  back 
to  me !  .  .  .  I  can  hear  nothing  .  .  .  What 
are  you  doing  with  him?  .  .  .  You  will  not 
hurt  him?  .  .  .  He  is  only  a  little  child  .  .  . 
He  cannot  resist  .  .  .  Look,  look!  ...  I 
mean  no  harm  ...  I  am  on  my  knees  .  .  . 
Give  him  back  to  us,  I  beg  of  you  .  .  .  Not 
for  my  sake  only,  you  know  it  well  ...  I  will 
do  anything  ...  I  bear  no  ill-will,  you  see  .  .  . 
I  implore  you  with  clasped  hands  ...  I  was 
wrong  ...  I  am  quite  resigned,  you  see  .  .  . 


156    THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

I  have  lost  all  I  had  .  .  .  You  should  punish 
me  some  other  way  .  .  .  There  are  so  many 
things  which  would  hurt  me  more  ...  if  you 
want  to  hurt  me  .  .  .  You  shall  see  .  .  .  But 
this  poor  child  has  done  no  harm  .  .  .  What  I 
said  was  not  true  .  .  .  but  I  did  not  know 
...  I  know  that  you  are  very  good  .  .  . 
Surely  the  time  for  forgiveness  has  come !  .  .  . 
He  is  so  young  and  beautiful,  and  he  is  so  small ! 
.  .  .  You  must  see  that  it  cannot  be !  .  .  .  He 
puts  his  little  arms  around  your  neck:  his  little 
mouth  on  your  mouth;  and  God  Himself  could 
not  say  him  nay  .  .  .  You  will  open  the  door, 
will  you  not?  .  .  .  I  am  asking  so  little  ...  I 
want  him  for  an  instant,  just  for  an  instant  .  .  . 
I  cannot  remember  .  .  .  You  will  understand 
...  I  did  not  have  time  .  .  .  He  can  get 
through  the  tiniest  opening  ...  It  is  not  diffi- 
cult .  .  .  \_A  long  inexorable  silence. ]  .  .  . 
Monster!  .  .  .  Monster!  .  .  .  Curse  you!  Curse 
you !  .  .  .  I  spit  on  you !  [She  sinks  down  and 
continues  to  sob  softly,  her  arms  outspread 
against  the  gate,  in  the  gloom.~\ 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

[Translated  by  Alfred  Sutra.] 


CHARACTERS 

ABLAMORE 

ASTOLAINE,  Ablamore's  daughter 

ALLADINE 

PALOMIDES 

THE  SISTERS  OF  PALOMIDES 

A  DOCTOR 


ALLADINE  AND 
PALOMIDES 

ACT  I 

\^A  wild  spot  in  the  gardens."] 
[Alladine  lies  asleep;  Ablamore  is  bending  over 


Ablamore.  Sleep  seems  to  reign  here,  day  and 
night,  beneath  these  trees.  No  sooner  have  we 
arrived,  she  and  I,  towards  eventide,  no  sooner 
has  she  seated  herself,  than  sleep  steals  over 
her  .  .  .  Alas,  I  ought  to  be  glad  of  it !  For 
in  the  daytime,  if  I  speak  to  her  and  our  eyes 
chance  to  meet,  there  comes  into  her  eyes  a 
look  so  hard  that  she  might  be  a  slave  whom  I 
had  ordered  to  do  a  thing  that  could  not  be  done 
.  .  .  But  that  look  is  not  usual  with  her.  Often 
and  often  have  I  watched  those  beautiful  eyes 
as  they  rested  on  children,  the  forest,  the  sea, 
or  whatever  was  near.  At  me  she  smiles  as  we 
smile  at  our  enemies;  and  never  dare  I  bend 
over  her  save  when  her  eyes  can  no  longer  be- 
hold me.  A  few  such  moments  are  mine  every 
evening;  the  rest  of  the  day  I  live  by  her  side 
161 


1 62     ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

with  my  face  averted  ...  It  is  sad  to  love  too 
late  .  .  .  Women  do  not  understand  that  years 
cannot  separate  heart  from  heart.  "The  wise 
King"  they  used  to  call  me.  I  was  wise  because, 
till  then,  nothing  had  happened.  There  are 
some  men  from  whom  events  do  thus  seem  to 
shrink,  and  turn  aside.  Nothing  would  ever 
take  place  where  I  chanced  to  be  ...  I  had 
some  suspicion  of  this  in  bygone  days.  There 
were  friends  of  mine,  in  my  youth,  who  had 
only  to  show  themselves  for  adventures  to  flock 
to  them;  but  if  I  sallied  forth  in  their  midst, 
seeking  gladness  or  sorrow,  we  would  ever  re- 
turn empty  handed  ...  It  is  as  though  I  had 
paralysed  destiny;  and  there  was  a  time  when 
this  was  a  source  of  much  pride  to  me  .  .  . 
During  my  reign,  all  men  have  known  peace 
.  .  .  But  now  I  have  come  to  believe  that  even 
disaster  is  better  than  lethargy,  and  that  there 
must  be  a  life  that  is  loftier,  more  stirring,  than 
this  constant  lying  in  wait  .  .  .  They  shall  see 
that  I  too,  when  I  choose,  have  the  power  to 
stir  up  the  dead  water  that  slumbers  in  the 
mighty  tarn  of  the  future  .  .  .  Alladine,  Al- 
ladine  I  ...  Oh  how  beautiful  she  is !  Her 
long  hair  falls  on  to  the  flowers,  on  to  her  lamb; 
her  mouth  is  half  open,  and  fresher  than  the 
dawn  ...  I  will  kiss  her — she  shall  not  know: 
I  will  keep  back  this  poor  white  beard  of  mine 
.  .  .  [he  kisses  her]  .  .  .  She  smiled  .  .  . 
Why  should  I  be  sorry  for  her?  She  gives  me 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     163 

a  few  years  of  her  life,  but  some  day  she  will 
reign  as  queen;  and  before  I  wend  my  way 
hence,  I  shall  at  least  have  done  a  little  good 
.  .  .  They  will  be  surprised  .  .  .  She  herself 
knows  nothing  .  .  .  Ah  see,  she  awakes,  in 
alarm.  Where  do  you  come  from,  Alladine? 

Alladine.     I  have  had  a  bad  dream. 

Ablamore.  What  is  it?  Why  look  you  out  yon- 
der? 

Alladine.    Some  one  has  passed  by,  on  the  road. 

Ablamore.     I  heard  nothing  .  .  . 

Alladine.  I  tell  you  some  one  is  coming  .  .  . 
There  he  is!  [She  points  to  a  young  cavalier 
who  is  advancing  towards  them  through  the 
trees  holding  his  horse  by  the  bridle. ]  Do  not 
hold  my  hand;  I  am  not  frightened  .  .  .  He 
has  not  seen  us  ... 

Ablamore.  Who  would  dare  to  come  here?  .  .  . 
If  I  were  not  sure  ...  I  believe  it  is  Palo- 
mides  .  .  .  He  is  betrothed  to  Astolaine  .  .  . 
See,  he  raises  his  head  ...  Is  it  you,  Palo- 
mides?  [Enter  Palomides.~\ 

Palomides.  Yes,  my  father  ...  if  I  may  al- 
ready call  you  by  that  name.  I  have  come  be- 
fore the  day  and  before  the  hour  .  .  . 

Ablamore.  You  are  welcome,  whatever  the  hour 
.  .  .  But  what  can  have  happened?  We  did 
not  expect  you  so  soon,  not  for  at  least  two  days 
...  Has  Astolaine  come  with  you? 

Palomides.  No;  she  will  arrive  to-morrow.  We 
have  travelled  day  and  night.  She  was  tired; 


1 64    ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

she  begged  me  to  go  on  before  her  .  .  .  Are 
my  sisters  here? 

Ablamore.  They  came  three  days  ago,  and  wait 
for  the  wedding.  You  look  very  happy,  Palo- 
mides. 

Palomides.  Who  would  not  be  happy,  that  had 
found  all  he  sought?  There  was  a  time  when 
sorrow  weighed  on  me.  But  now  the  days  seem 
lighter  to  me,  and  more  gentle,  than  the  inno- 
cent birds  that  come  and  nestle  in  our  hand. 
And  if  by  chance  one  of  the  old  moments  re- 
turns to  me,  I  have  but  to  draw  nigh  unto  Asto- 
laine,  and  a  window  would  seem  to  fly  open  and 
let  in  the  dawn.  Astolaine's  soul  can  be  seen; 
it  is  there ;  it  takes  you  in  its  arms  and  comforts 
you,  without  saying  a  word,  as  one  comforts  a 
suffering  child  ...  I  shall  never  understand 
...  I  know  not  whence  it  arises ;  but  my  knees 
bend  under  me  if  I  only  speak  of  her  .  .  . 

Alladine.    I  want  to  go  in. 

Ablamore  [noticing  that  Alladine  and  Palomides 
are  looking  shyly  at  each  other~\.  This  is  little 
Alladine,  who  has  come  from  the  depths  of  Ar- 
cady  .  .  .  Take  each  other  by  the  hand  .  .  . 
You  are  surprised,  Palomides? 

Palomides.  My  father  .  .  .  {His  horse  makes  a 
brusque  movement  which  startles  Alladine's 
lamb.~\ 

Ablamore.  Be  careful;  your  horse  has  frightened 
Alladine's  lamb.  It  will  run  away. 

Alladine.    No;  it  never  runs  away.     It  was  sur- 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     165 

prised,  that  is  all.  It  is  a  lamb  that  my  god- 
mother gave  me  ...  It  is  not  like  other  lambs. 
It  never  leaves  me,  day  or  night.  [She  caresses 
the  lamb.~\ 

Palomides  [also  caressing  it~\.  It  is  looking  at 
me  with  the  eyes  of  a  child. 

Alladine.    It  understands  everything. 

Ablamore.  It  is  time  for  you  to  go  to  your  sis- 
ters, Palomides.  They  will  be  surprised  to 
see  you. 

Alladine.  They  have  gone  to  the  cross-roads 
every  day.  I  went  with  them ;  but  they  did  not 
expect  so  soon — 

Ablamore.  Come,  Palomides  is  covered  with  dust 
and  must  be  tired.  We  have  too  much  to  tell 
one  another,  we  must  not  stay  here.  To-mor- 
row we  will  talk.  The  dawn,  they  say,  is  wiser 
than  evening.  See,  the  palace  gates  are  open 
and  seem  to  invite  us  ... 

Alladine.  I  cannot  tell  why  it  is  that  uneasiness 
comes  to  me,  each  time  I  go  into  the  palace.  It 
is  so  vast  and  I  am  so  little;  I  am  lost  in  it  ... 
And  all  those  windows  that  look  on  to  the  sea 
.  .  .  You  cannot  count  them  .  .  .  And  the  cor- 
ridors that  wind,  and  wind,  for  no  reason;  and 
others  that  do  not  turn,  but  that  lose  them- 
selves in  the  walls  .  .  .  And  the  rooms  I  dare 
not  go  into — 

Palomides.    We  will  go  into  every  one  .  .  . 

Alladine.  I  feel  that  I  was  not  meant  to  live 
there,  or  that  it  was  not  built  for  me  .  .  . 


1 66    ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

Once,  I  lost  my  way  ...  I  had  to  open  thirty 
doors  before  the  daylight  returned  to  me.  And 
I  could  not  escape;  the  last  door  led  to  a  lake 
.  .  .  And  there  are  vaults  that  are  cold  even  in 
summer;  and  galleries  that  twist,  and  twist, 
back  on  to  themselves.  And  stairs  that  lead 
no  whither  and  terraces  whence  nothing  can  be 
seen  .  .  . 

Ablamore.    How  you  speak  to-night,  you  who  are 
always  so  silent  .  .  .   [They  go  out.] 


ACT  II 

SCENE  I 

[Alladine  is  discovered,  her  forehead  pressed 
against  one  of  the  windows  looking  on  to  the 
•park.  Enter  Ablamore.] 

Ablamore.     Alladine. 

Alladine  [turning  round  quickly].     Yes. 

Ablamore.    Oh  how  pale  you  look!    Are  you  ill? 

Alladine.    No. 

Ablamore.  What  were  you  looking  at  in  the 
park?  At  the  row  of  fountains  in  front  of  the 
windows?  They  are  marvellous,  indefatigable. 
They  sprang  up,  one  after  the  other,  at  the 
death  of  each  of  my  daughters  ...  At  night  I 
can  hear  them  singing  in  the  garden.  They  re- 
call to  me  the  lives  they  stand  for,  and  I  am 
able  to  distinguish  their  voices  .  .  . 

Alladine.     I  know  .   .   . 

Ablamore.  You  must  forgive  me;  I  repeat  myself 
at  times;  my  memory  is  not  quite  so  faithful 
...  It  is  not  because  of  my  age;  I  am  not  an 
old  man  yet,  thank  God;  but  a  King  has  a  thou- 
sand cares.  Palomides  has  been  telling  me  of 
his  adventures. 

Alladine.    Ah! 

167 


1 68     ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

Ablamore.  He  has  not  acted  in  all  things  as  he 
would  have  desired  to  act.  Young  men  are  not 
very  strong-willed,  nowadays. — I  was  surprised. 
There  were  countless  suitors  for  my  daughter's 
hand;  I  had  chosen  him  from  among  them  all. 
She  needed  a  soul  that  should  be  no  less  pro- 
found than  her  own.  Nothing  that  he  has  done 
could  be  called  inexcusable,  but  yet  I  had  hoped 
for  more  .  .  .  What  impression  did  he  make 
on  you  ? 

Alladine.    Who? 

Ablamore.     Palomides. 

Alladine.  I  have  only  seen  him  that  one  eve- 
ning .  .  . 

Ablamore.  I  was  astonished. — Hitherto  all  has 
gone  well  with  him.  He  undertook  nothing 
that  he  did  not  accomplish  successfully,  and 
without  many  words.  He  always  could  over- 
come danger,  with  scarcely  an  effort;  while  so 
many  others  can  hardly  open  a  door  without 
finding  death  crouching  behind.  He  was  of 
those  upon  whom  events  seem  to  wait,  on  their 
knees.  But  of  late  it  appears  as  though  some- 
thing were  broken;  as  though  his  star  were  no 
longer  the  same;  as  though  every  step  that  he 
took  dragged  him  further  away  from  himself. 
— I  know  not  what  it  can  be. — He  himself  seems 
not  to  suspect  it;  but  to  every  one  else  it  is 
clear  .  .  .  But  enough  of  all  this;  see,  the 
night  is  coming  towards  us,  creeping  over  the 
walls.  Shall  we  go  together  to  the  wood  of 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     169 

Astolat,  where  we  always  spend  our  evenings? 

Alladine.    I  shall  not  go  out  to-night. 

Ablamore.  We  will  stay  here  then,  since  you  pre- 
fer it.  But  the  air  is  tender  to-night;  the  eve- 
ning is  beautiful.  [Alladine  trembles,  unper- 
ceived  by  him.~\  I  have  had  flowers  planted 
along  the  hedges;  I  should  have  liked  to  have 
shown  them  to  you  .  .  . 

Alladine.  No,  not  to-night  ...  I  beg  of  you 
...  I  like  going  there  with  you  .  .  .  the  air 
is  very  pure,  and  the  trees  .  .  .  but  not  to-night 
.  .  .  [she  bursts  into  tears,  and  nestles  close  to 
the  old  man's  breast. ]  I  am  not  well  .  .  . 

Ablamore.  Not  well?  You  are  falling  ...  I 
will  call  .  .  . 

Alladine.  No,  no  ...  it  is  nothing  ...  it  is 
over  now  .  .  . 

Ablamore.  Sit  down.  Wait  .  .  .  [He  goes 
quickly  to  the  door  at  the  back,  and  throws  it 
wide  open.  Palomides  is  behind,  seated  on  a 
bench  that  faces  the  door;  he  has  not  had  time 
to  turn  his  eyes  away.  Ablamore  looks  fixedly 
at  him,  but  says  not  a  word;  then  returns  to  the 
room.  Palomides  rises,  and  steals  away  through 
the  corridor,  on  tiptoe.  The  lamb  goes  out  of 
the  room,  unperceived  by  the  others.] 


1 70    ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

SCENE  II 

[A  drawbridge  over  the  palace  moat.~\ 

[Palomides  enters  at  one  end,  Allad'ine  at  the 
other,  with  her  lamb  by  her  side.  King  Abla~ 
more  is  leaning  out  of  a  window  in  the  tower. ~\ 

Palomides.  You  are  going  out,  Alladine? — I 
have  just  returned;  I  have  been  hunting  .  .  . 
There  has  been  a  shower  .  .  . 

Alladine.     I  have  never  yet  crossed  this  bridge. 

Palomides.  It  leads  to  the  forest.  People  seldom 
pass  over  it.  They  prefer  to  take  another  road, 
which  is  much  longer.  I  imagine  that  they  are 
afraid,  because  the  dykes  here  are  deeper  than 
elsewhere ;  and  the  black  water  that  pours  from 
the  mountain  seethes  horribly  between  the  walls 
before  it  throws  itself  into  the  sea.  It  is  always 
angry,  but  the  quays  are  so  high  that  one  scarce- 
ly can  see  it.  This  is  the  most  deserted  wing 
of  the  palace.  But  the  forest  is  more  beautiful 
this  side — older  and  grander  than  anything  you 
ever  have  seen,  full  of  strange  trees  and  flowers 
that  have  sprung  up  of  themselves.  Will  you 
come? 

Alladine.  I  don't  know  ...  I  am  afraid  of  the 
angry  water. 

Palomides.  Come — there  is  no  cause  for  its  an- 
ger. See,  your  lamb  is  looking  at  me  as  though 
it  desired  to  go.  Come  .  .  . 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     171 

Alladine.  Do  not  call,  it  will  break  away  from 
me  .  .  . 

Palomides.  Come  with  me.  Come  .  .  .  [The 
lamb  escapes  from  Alladine  and  bounds  towards 
Palomides;  but  it  stumbles  on  the  slope  of  the 
drawbridge,  misses  its  footing  and  falls  into  the 
moat.~\ 

Alladine.    Where  is  it?    What  has  happened? 

Palomides.  It  has  fallen  into  the  moat!  It  is 
struggling  in  the  whirlpool.  Do  not  look;  noth- 
ing can  be  done  .  .  . 

Alladine.    You  will  save  it? 

Palomides.  Save  it!  Alas,  it  is  already  drawn 
under.  Yet  an  instant  and  it  will  be  below,  un- 
derneath the  vaults;  and  God  Himself  will 
never  behold  it  again  .  .  . 

Alladine.     Leave  me!  leave  me! 

Palomides.    What  have  I  done? 

Alladine.  Leave  me !  I  never  want  to  see  you 
again.  [Ablamore  enters  abruptly,  seizes  Alla- 
dine and  takes  her  away  quickly,  without  saying 
a  word.~\ 

SCENE  III 

\_A  room  in  the  palace. ~\ 
[Ablamore  and  Alladine  are  discovered  tog  ether. ~\ 

Ablamore.  See,  Alladine,  my  hands  are  not  trem- 
bling, and  my  heart  beats  as  tranquilly  as  that 
of  a  sleeping  child,  and  indeed  my  voice  has 
never  been  raised  in  anger.  I  do  not  blame 


172    ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

Palomides,  though  his  conduct  may  well  seem 
unpardonable.  And  as  for  you,  why  should  I 
blame  you?  You  obey  laws  that  you  know  not 
of;  nor  could  you  have  acted  otherwise.  I  shall 
say  not  a  word  of  all  that  took  place,  but  a  few 
days  ago,  by  the  side  of  the  castle  moat,  or 
of  what  the  sudden  death  of  the  lamb  might 
have  revealed  to  me,  had  I  chosen  to  believe 
in  omens.  But  last  night  I  witnessed  the  kiss 
you  exchanged  beneath  the  windows  of  Asto- 
laine's  room.  At  that  moment  I  happened  to 
be  with  her.  The  one  great  dread  of  her  soul 
is  lest  she  disturb  the  happiness  of  those  about 
her  by  a  tear,  or  even  a  quiver  of  the  eyelid; 
and  thus  I  never  shall  know  whether  she  also 
beheld  that  miserable  kiss.  But  I  do  know  how 
deeply  she  can  suffer.  I  shall  ask  nothing  of 
you  that  you  cannot  confess  to  me;  all  I  wish 
you  to  tell  me  is  whether  you  obeyed  some 
secret  plan  when  you  followed  Palomides  un- 
derneath the  window  where  you  must  have  seen 
us.  Answer  me  fearlessly;  you  know  I  have 
already  forgiven. 

Alladine.    I  did  not  kiss  him. 

Ablamore.  What!  you  did  not  kiss  Palomides, 
or  he  you? 

Alladine.    No. 

Ablamore.  Ah!  .  .  .  Listen:  I  came  hither  pre- 
pared to  forgive  all  that  had  happened:  I  said 
to  myself  that  you  had  acted  as  most  of  us 
act  when  our  soul  holds  aloof  from  us  ... 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     173 

But  now  all  must  be  told.  You  love  Palomides: 
you  kissed  him  before  my  eyes. 

'Alladine.    No. 

Ablamore.  Do  not  run  away.  I  am  only  an  old 
man.  Do  not  try  to  escape. 

Alladine.    I  am  not  trying  to  escape  .  .  . 

Ablamore.  Ah !  Ah !  That  is  because  you  imag- 
ine these  old  hands  of  mine  are  powerless! 
There  is  strength  enough  in  them  still  to  tear 
out  a  secret,  wheresoever  it  be.  [He  seizes  her 
by  the  armsJ\  There  is  strength  enough  in 
them  still  to  combat  those  you  prefer  .  .  . 
[He  forces  her  arms  behind  her  lneadJ\  Ah, 
you  refuse  to  speak !  But  the  moment  will  come 
when  the  pain  will  force  your  soul  to  rush  forth, 
like  clear  water  .  .  . 

Alladine.    No,  no! 

Ablamore.  Again?  We  are  not  at  the  end,  then; 
the  road  is  long;  and  truth  is  ashamed,  and 
hides  behind  the  rocks  ...  Is  it  coming?  .  .  . 
I  see  it  moving  in  your  eyes;  I  feel  its  soft 
breath  on  my  cheek  .  .  .  Oh  Alladine,  Alla- 
dine! [he  suddenly  releases  her~\  I  heard  your 
bones  lament,  like  little  children  ...  I  have 
not  hurt  you?  .  .  .  Do  not  kneel  to  me — it  is 
I  who  must  go  on  my  knees  before  you  .  .  . 
I  am  a  monster  .  .  .  Have  pity  ...  It  is  not 
for  myself  alone  that  I  have  besought  this  of 
you  ...  I  have  only  this  one  poor  daughter 
.  .  .  The  others  are  dead  .  .  .  Once  there 
were  seven  around  me  .  .  .  They  were  beauti- 


174    ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

ful,  radiant  with  joy,  I  have  never  seen  them 
again  .  .  .  The  only  one  who  was  left  to  me 
was  also  about  to  die  .  .  .  She  had  no  desire 
to  live  .  .  .  Then  there  was  a  sudden,  unex- 
pected meeting,  and  I  saw  she  no  longer  craved 
for  death  ...  I  ask  nothing  impossible  of 
you  .  .  .  [Alladine  weeps,  but  makes  no  an- 
swer.] 

SCENE  IV 

\Astolavn(? s  room.] 
[Astolaine  and  Palomides  are  discovered.] 

Palomides.  Astolaine,  when  it  so  fell  about  that 
I  met  you,  some  few  months  ago,  I  seemed  at 
least  to  have  found  what  I  had  sought  for  many 
years.  Till  then,  I  had  no  suspicion  of  all  that 
real  goodness  meant,  its  sweetness  and  tender- 
ness; I  was  blind  to  the  perfect  simplicity  of  a 
truly  beautiful  soul.  And  these  things  stirred 
me  so  deeply  that  it  seemed  to  be  the  first  time 
in  my  life  that  I  stood  before  a  human  being. 
I  seemed  to  have  spent  all  my  days  in  an  air- 
less chamber;  and  it  was  you  who  flung  open 
the  door — and  I  knew  then  what  other  men's 
souls  must  be,  what  my  soul,  too,  might  become 
.  .  .  Since  then,  I  have  drawn  closer  to  you.  I 
have  seen  the  things  that  you  did;  and  others, 
too,  have  spoken  of  you. 

There  were  evenings  when  I  wandered  away 
from  you,  silently,  and  so.ught  a  secluded  spot 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     175 

in  the  palace,  and  could  not  keep  back  my 
tears  as  I  thought  of  you,  and  wondered; 
though  you  only  had  raised  your  eyes,  it  may 
be,  or  made  some  little  unconscious  gesture, 
or  smiled,  perhaps,  for  no  visible  reason,  and 
yet  at  the  very  moment  that  the  souls  around 
you  craved  for  this  smile,  and  needed  it,  for 
their  comfort.  You  alone  know  of  these  mo- 
ments; for  it  would  seem  that  your  soul  con- 
tains the  soul  of  each  one  of  us;  and  I  cannot 
believe  that  those  who  have  not  drawn  near  to 
you  can  tell  what  the  true  life  may  be.  And  I 
speak  of  all  this  to-day  because  I  feel  that  I 
never  shall  be  what  I  had  hoped  that  I  might 
become  .  .  .  Fate  has  stepped  out  towards  me ; 
or  I,  it  may  be,  have  beckoned  to  Fate ;  for  we 
never  know  whether  we  ourselves  have  gone 
forth  or  Fate  have  come  seeking  us — something 
has  happened  whereby  my  eyes  have  been 
opened,  at  the  very  moment  that  we  were  about 
to  draw  unhappiness  down  on  us;  and  I  recog- 
nised that  there  must  be  a  power  more  incom- 
prehensible than  the  beauty  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful face,  the  most  beautiful  soul;  and  mightier 
too,  since  I  must  perforce  give  way  to  it  ... 
I  know  not  whether  you  understand  ...  In 
that  case,  pity  me  ...  I  have  said  to  myself 
all  that  could  be  said  ...  I  know  what  it  is 
that  I  lose;  I  know  that  her  soul  is  the  soul  of 
a  child,  of  a  poor  and  helpless  child,  by  the  side 


176    ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

of  your  soul:  and  for  all  that  I  cannot  resist 

Astolaine.  Do  not  weep  ...  I  too  am  well 
aware  that  we  are  not  always  able  to  do  the 
thing  we  prefer  ...  I  was  not  unprepared  for 
your  coming  .  .  .  There  must  indeed  be  laws 
mightier  than  those  of  the  soul,  whereof  we 
forever  are  speaking  .  .  .  [she  suddenly  kisses 
him] — But  I  love  you  the  more  for  it,  my  poor 
Palomides  .  .  . 

Palomides.  I  love  you,  too  .  .  .  more  than  her 
whom  I  love  .  .  .  Are  you  crying,  too? 

Astolaine.  They  are  little  tears  ...  let  them 
not  sadden  you  .  .  .  My  tears  fall  because  I 
am  a  woman;  but  women's  tears,  they  say,  are 
not  painful  .  .  .  See,  my  eyes  are  already  dry 
...  I  was  well  aware  of  it  ...  I  knew  I 
should  soon  be  awakened  .  .  .  And  now  that  it 
is  over  I  can  breathe  more  freely,  for  I  am 
no  longer  happy  .  .  .  That  is  all  ...  We 
must  consider  what  had  best  be  done,  for  you 
and  for  her.  I  am  afraid  my  father  suspects 
.  .  .  [They  go  out.] 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I 

[An  apartment  in  the  -palace. ~\ 

[Ablamore  is  discovered.  Astolaine  is  standing 
on  the  threshold  of  a  half-opened  door  at  the 
end  of  the  room.] 

Astolaine.  Father,  I  have  come  to  you  in  obedi- 
ence to  a  voice  within  me  that  I  can  no  longer 
resist.  You  know  all  that  took  place  in  my  soul 
when  I  met  Palomides.  He  seemed  different 
from  other  men  .  .  .  To-day  I  come  to  you 
seeking  your  help  .  .  .  for  I  know  not  what  I 
had  best  say  to  him  ...  I  have  realised  that  I 
cannot  love  ...  It  is  not  he  who  has  changed, 
but  I — or  perhaps  I  did  not  understand  .  .  . 
And  since  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  love  the 
man  I  had  selected  from  among  them  all  with 
the  love  I  had  dreamed  of,  it  must  needs  be 
that  these  things  cannot  touch  my  heart  .  .  . 
I  know  it  now  .  .  .  My  eyes  shall  no  longer 
stray  to  the  paths  of  love;  and  you  will  see 
me  living  by  your  side  without  sorrow  and  with- 
out disquiet  ...  I  feel  that  I  am  about  to  be 
happy. 

Ablamore.  Come  nearer  to  me,  Astolaine.  It 

177 


178    ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

was  not  thus  that  in  days  gone  by  you  were 
wont  to  speak  to  your  father.  You  stand  there, 
on  the  threshold  of  a  half-closed  door,  as 
though  anxious  to  fly  from  me;  you  keep  your 
hand  on  the  key,  as  though  you  desired  forever 
to  hide  from  me  the  secret  of  your  heart.  You 
know  full  well  that  I  have  not  understood  what 
you  have  said  to  me ;  that  words  have  no  mean- 
ing when  soul  is  not  near  unto  soul.  Come 
closer  to  me — you  need  tell  me  no  more.  [As- 
tolaine  approaches  slowly. ~\  There  comes  a 
moment  when  soul  meets  soul;  when  all  is 
known  to  them  though  the  lips  remained  closed 
.  .  .  Come  closer,  closer  still  .  .  .  They  are 
even  yet  too  far  apart,  these  souls  of  ours — 
their  light  is  so  feeble  around  us!  [Astolaine 
suddenly  halts. ,]  You  are  afraid? — You  know 
how  far  one  may  go  ? — Then  it  is  I  will  come  to 
you  .  .  .  [He  moves  slowly  towards  Astolaine, 
stands  in  front  of  her  and  gazes  fixedly  at  her.~\ 
I  see  you,  Astolaine  .  .  . 

Astolaine.  Father!  .  .  .  [She  bursts  into  tears 
and  sobs  in  the  old  man's  breast.] 

Ablamore.     You  see  how  useless  it  was  .  .  . 

SCENE  II 

[A  room  in  the  palace. ~\ 
[Enter  Alladine  and  Palomides.'] 

Palomides.  To-morrow  all  will  be  ready.  We 
must  not  wait  any  longer.  He  is  wandering 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     179 

like  a  madman  through  the  palace  corridors ;  I 
met  him  but  a  short  time  ago.  He  looked  at 
me,  but  said  nothing;  I  passed  on,  but,  when  I 
turned  round,  I  saw  that  he  was  laughing  to 
himself  and  flourishing  a  bunch  of  keys.  When 
he  saw  that  I  was  watching  him,  he  nodded, 
and  smiled,  and  tried  to  look  friendly.  He  must 
be  nursing  some  secret  scheme — we  are  in  the 
hands  of  a  master  whose  reason  is  tottering. 
To-morrow  we  shall  be  far  away.  Out  yonder 
there  are  wonderful  countries  that  are  more  like 
your  own.  Astolaine  has  already  prepared  for 
our  flight  and  for  that  of  my  sisters  .  .  . 

Alladine.    What  did  she  say? 

Palomides.  Nothing,  nothing  .  .  .  We  shall  be 
on  the  sea  for  days,  then  days  of  forest — and 
afterwards  we  shall  come  to  the  lakes  and 
mountains  that  surround  my  father's  castle;  and 
you  will  see  how  different  they  are  from  every- 
thing here,  where  the  sky  is  like  the  roof  of  a 
cavern  and  the  black  trees  are  done  to  death 
by  the  storms  .  .  .  Ours  is  a  sky  beneath  which 
none  are  afraid;  our  forests  are  full  of  life, 
and  with  us  the  flowers  never  close  .  .  . 

Alladine.     Did  she  cry? 

Palomides.  Why  these  questions?  .  .  .  That  is 
a  thing  of  which  we  have  no  right  to  speak — do 
you  hear?  Her  life  has  nothing  in  common 
with  our  poor  life ;  love  must  perforce  be  silent 
before  it  dare  approach  her  .  .  .  When  I 
think  of  her,  we  seem  to  be  beggars,  you  and 


1 8o    ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

I,  and  clothed  in  rags  .  .  .  Leave  me,  leave 
me!  .  .  .  For  I  could  say  things  to  you  .  .  . 

Alladine.    Palomides!  .  .  .  What  has  happened? 

Palomides.  Go,  go  ...  I  saw  tears  that  came 
not  from  the  eyes,  but  from  far  beyond  .  .  . 
For  there  are  other  things  .  .  .  And  yet  we  are 
right,  perhaps;  but  oh  God,  if  that  be  so  how 
sorry  I  am  to  be  right!  .  .  .  Go,  go  ...  I 
will  tell  you  to-morrow,  to-morrow,  to-morrow 
.  .  .  [ They  go  out  by  different  ways.~\ 


SCENE  III 

\_A  corridor  in  front  of  Alladine's  room.] 
[Enter  Astolaine  and  the  Sisters  of  Palomides.] 

Astolaine.  The  horses  are  waiting  in  the  forest, 
but  Palomides  refuses  to  fly,  although  your  lives 
are  in  peril  as  well  as  his  own.  I  no  longer 
recognise  my  poor  father.  He  has  a  fixed  idea 
which  unhinges  his  reason.  I  have  been  follow- 
ing him,  the  last  three  days,  step  by  step,  crouch- 
ing behind  walls  and  pillars,  for  he  will  suffer 
no  one  to  accompany  him.  To-day,  with  the 
first  rays  of  dawn,  he  again  set  forth  and  wan- 
dered through  the  rooms  of  the  palace,  and  the 
corridors,  and  along  the  moat  and  the  ramparts, 
waving  the  great  golden  keys  he  has  had  made, 
and  chanting  loudly  the  strange  song  whose  re- 
frain, "Go  where  your  eyes  may  lead,"  may 
perhaps  have  reached  you  even  in  your  rooms. 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     181 

Hitherto  I  have  told  you  nothing  of  all  this,  for 
these  are  things  whereof  one  should  not  speak 
without  cause.  He  must  have  confined  Alla- 
dine  in  this  room,  but  no  one  knows  what  he 
has  done  to  her.  I  have  watched  every  night 
and  run  to  the  door,  and  listened,  the  moment 
he  had  turned  away,  but  I  have  heard  not  a 
sound  in  the  room  .  .  .  Can  you  hear  any- 
thing? 

One  of  the  Sisters  of  Palomldes.  Only  the  mur- 
mur of  the  air  as  it  passes  through  the  crevice 
in  the  wall  .  .  . 

Another  Sister.  When  I  listen  I  seem  only  to 
hear  the  great  pendulum,  as  it  swings  to  and 
fro  ... 

A  Third  Sister.  But  who  is  this  little  Alladine, 
and  why  is  he  so  angry  with  her? 

Astolalne.  She  is  a  little  Greek  slave,  who  has 
come  from  the  depths  of  Arcady  .  .  .  He  is 
not  angry  with  her,  but  .  .  .  Hark,  there  he 
is.  [Some  one  Is  heard  singing  In  the  distance.] 
Hide  behind  these  pillars.  He  has  given  orders 
that  no  one  should  pass  along  this  corridor. 
[They  hide.  Ablamore  comes  In,  singing ,  and 
flourishing  a  great  bunch  of  keys.] 

Ablamore  \_slng  s~\. 

Unhappiness  had  three  keys  of  gold 
— But  the  queen  is  not  yet  freed — 
Unhappiness  had  three  keys  of  gold 
Go  where  your  eyes  may  lead. 


1 82    ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

[He  seems  terribly  weary  and  lets  himself  fall  on 
to  the  bench  that  faces  Alia dine 's  room;  for 
some  little  time  still  he  murmurs  his  song,  then 
falls  asleep,  his  hands  hanging  down  by  his  side 
and  his  head  sinking  on  to  his  shoulder. ~\ 

Astolaine.  Come;  and  make  no  noise.  He  has 
fallen  asleep  on  the  bench.  Oh  my  poor  father  1 
How  white  his  hair  has  grown  these  last  few 
days!  He  is  so  unhappy,  so  weak,  that  even 
sleep  can  bring  no  comfort  to  him.  For  three 
whole  days  I  have  not  dared  look  into  his 
face  .  .  . 

One  of  the  Sisters  of  Palomides.  He  sleeps  pro- 
foundly .  .  . 

Astolaine.  Yes;  but  one  can  see  that  his  soul  is 
not  at  rest  .  .  .  The  sun  is  beating  down  on 
his  eyes  ...  I  will  draw  his  cloak  over  his 
face  .  .  . 

Another  Sister.  No,  no,  do  not  touch  him;  you 
might  startle  him,  wake  him. 

Astolaine.  There  is  some  one  coming  along  the 
corridor  .  .  .  Do  you  stand  in  front  of  him, 
and  hide  him  ...  It  would  not  be  right  that  a 
stranger  should  behold  him  thus  ... 

One  of  the  Sisters.     It  is  Palomides  .  .  . 

Astolaine.  I  will  cover  up  those  poor  eyes  .  .  . 
[She  spreads  the  cloak  over  Ablamore's  face.] 
Palomides  must  not  see  him  like  this  .  .  .  He 
is  too  unhappy  .  .  .  [Enter  Palomides.] 

Palomides.    What  has  happened? 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     183 

One  of  the  Sisters.     He  has  fallen  asleep  on  the 

bench. 
Palomides.    He  could  not  see  me,  but  I  have  been 

following  him  .   .  .  He  has  said  nothing? 
Astolaine.    No ;  but  see  how  he  has  suffered  .  .   . 
Palomides.    Has  he  the  keys? 
Another  Sister.     He  is  holding  them  in  his  hand. 
Palomides.     I  will  take  them  from  him. 
Astolaine.     What  do  you  mean  to  do?     Oh  be 

careful — do  not  wake  him.     For  three  nights 

now   he   has   been   roaming  through   the   pal- 
ace .  .  . 
Palomides.     I  will  unclasp  his  hand  gently — he 

will  not  feel  it.    We  dare  not  wait  any  longer. 

God  alone  can  tell  what  he  has  done !     He  will 

forgive  us  when  his  reason  returns  .  .   .  Oh ! 

how  weak  his  hands  are! 
Astolaine.     Be  careful — oh  be  careful! 
Palomides.     I  have  the  keys — which  one  is  it? 

I  will  open  the  door. 
One  of  the  Sisters.    I  am  frightened — do  not  open 

it  yet  .  .  .  Palomides  .   .   . 
Palomides.     Stay  here  ...  I  know  not  what  I 

shall  find  .  .   .    [He  goes  to  the  doort  opens  it, 

and  enters  the  room.~\ 
Astolaine.     Is  she  there? 
Palomides   [from  within  the  room~\.     I  can  see 

nothing — the  shutters  are  closed  .  .   . 
Astolaine.     Be  careful,  Palomides  .   .   .  Let  me 

go  first  .  .  .  Your  voice  is  trembling  .  .  . 
Palomides.     No,   no  ...  a   ray  of   sunlight   is 


1 84    ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

stealing  through  the  chinks  of  the  shutters  .  .  . 

One  of  the  Sisters.  Yes — the  sun  is  shining  bright- 
ly outside. 

Palomides  [suddenly  emerging  from  the  room]. 
Come,  quickly! — I  believe  that  she  .  .  . 

Astolaine.    You  have  seen  her?  .  .  . 

Palomides.  She  is  lying  on  the  bed  .  .  .  She  does 
not  move  ...  I  do  not  think  that —  .  .  . 
Come  in!  [ They  all  enter  the  room.] 

Astolaine  and  the  Sisters  of  Palomides  [inside  the 
room].  Here  she  is  ...  No,  no,  she  is  not 
dead  .  .  .  Alladine,  Alladine !  Ohr  poor  child 
.  .  .  Do  not  scream  .  .  .  She  has  fainted  .  .  . 
They  have  tied  her  hair  round  her  mouth  .  .  . 
and  fastened  her  hands  behind  her  .  .  .  they 
are  fastened  with  her  hair  .  .  .  Alladine,  Al- 
ladine !  .  .  .  Quick,  get  some  water  .  .  .  \_Ab- 
lamore  has  awakened  and  appears  on  the 
threshold.] 

Astolaine.     My  father  is  there  ! 

Ablamore  [going  up  to  Palomides].  Was  it  you 
who  opened  the  door  of  this  room? 

Palomides.  Yes,  I — I  did  it — and  then — and 
then?  ...  I  cannot  let  her  die  before  my  eyes 
.  .  .  See  what  you  have  done  .  .  .  Alladine! 
Be  not  afraid  .  .  .  She  is  opening  her  eyes 
...  I  will  not  endure  .  .  . 

Ablamore.  Do  not  speak  so  loudly  .  .  .  Come, 
let  us  open  the  shutters  .  .  .  We  cannot  see, 
in  here  .  .  .  Alladine  .  .  .  Ah,  she  has  al- 
ready got  up  ...  Come  you  too,  Alladine 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     185 

.  .  .  Look,  my  children,  how  dark  it  is  in  the 
room.  As  dark  as  though  we  were  thousands  of 
feet  underground.  But  I  have  only  to  open  a 
shutter,  and  see !  All  the  light  of  the  sky,  all 
the  light  of  the  sun !  ...  It  calls  for  no  mighty 
effort — the  light  is  eager  enough  .  .  .  We 
have  only  to  call — it  will  never  fail  to  obey  .  .  . 
Do  you  see  the  river  out  yonder,  with  the  is- 
lands in  its  midst,  all  covered  with  flowers?  The 
sky  to-day  might  be  a  ring  of  crystal  .  .  .  Al- 
ladine,  Palomides,  look  .  .  .  Come  nigh  unto 
heaven,  both  of  you  .  .  .  Kiss  each  other,  with 
this  new  light  upon  you  ...  I  bear  you  no 
ill-will.  You  have  done  what  was  ordained; 
and  so  have  I  too  .  .  .  Lean  for  one  instant 
out  of  this  open  window;  look  once  again  at 
the  trees  and  the  flowers  .  .  .  [A  silence.  He 
quietly  closes  the  shutters.] 


ACT  IV 

[Fast  subterranean  grottoes."] 
[Alladine  and  Palomides  are  discovered.] 

Palomides.  They  have  bandaged  my  eyes  and 
bound  my  hands  .  .  . 

Alladine.  My  hands  are  bound  too,  my  eyes  are 
bandaged  ...  I  believe  my  hands  are  bleed- 
ing ... 

Palomides.  Wait,  wait.  Oh  how  grateful  I  am 
to-day  for  my  strength  ...  I  feel  that  the 
knots  are  giving  ...  I  will  try  once  more, 
though  I  burst  every  vein  .  .  .  Once  more  still 
— ah,  my  hands  are  free !  [he  tears  of  the  ban- 
dage] and  my  eyes  too  I 

Alladine.    You  can  see? 

Palomides.    Yes. 

Alladine.    Where  are  we? 

Palomides.    I  cannot  see  you  .  .   . 

Alladine.     I  am  here,  here  .  .   . 

Palomides.  The  tears  still  stream  down  my  eyes 
from  the  effects  of  the  bandage  .  .  .  We  are 
not  in  darkness  ...  Is  it  you  that  I  hear,  out 
yonder,  close  to  the  light? 

Alladine.     I  am  here,  come  to  me  .  .   . 

Palomides.    You  are  on  the  edge  of  the  light.    Do 

1 86 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     187 

not  move ;  I  cannot  tell  what  there  is  all  around 
you.  My  eyes  still  remember  the  bandage. 
They  drew  it  so  tight  that  my  eyelids  have  nigh 
burst  in  twain. 

Alladine.  Come  quickly,  the  cords  suffocate  me. 
I  can  wait  no  longer  .  .  . 

Palomides.  I  hear  only  a  voice  that  comes  forth 
from  the  light  .  .  . 

Alladine.    Where  are  you? 

Palomides.  I  know  not  ...  I  am  still  groping 
in  darkness  .  .  .  Speak  again,  that  I  may  know 
where  to  look  for  you  .  .  .  You  seem  to  be 
in  the  midst  of  infinite  radiance  .  .  . 

Alladine.  Come  to  me,  oh  come!  I  have  suf- 
fered in  silence  but  now  can  endure  it  no  longer 

Palomides  [feeling  his  way  along~\.  Is  that  you? 
I  thought  you  so  far  away !  My  tears  had  de- 
ceived me.  But  now  I  am  here  and  can  see 
you.  Oh,  your  hands  are  wounded !  The  blood 
has  dropped  down  from  them  on  to  your  dress : 
the  cords  have  sunk  into  your  flesh.  And  I  have 
nothing  to  cut  them  with — they  have  taken 
away  my  dagger.  I  must  tear  them  off.  Wait, 
wait — I  have  found  the  knots. 

Alladine.  First  take  off  this  bandage  which  blinds 
me. 

Palomides.  I  cannot  ...  I  am  dazzled  ...  I 
seem  to  be  caught  in  the  midst  of  innumerable 
threads  of  gold  .  .  . 

Alladine.     My  hands,  then,  my  hands! 


1 88     ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

Palomides.  The  cords  are  of  silk  .  .  .  Wait,  the 
knots  are  giving.  They  have  wound  the  cord 
around  thirty  times  .  .  .  There,  there! — Oh 
how  your  hands  are  bleeding!  .  .  .  They  look 
as  though  they  were  dead  .  .  . 

Alladine.  No,  no,  they  live,  they  live !  See  I  ... 
[No  sooner  are  her  hands  freed  than  she  flings 
them  around  Palomides'  neck  and  embraces  him 
passionately. ~\ 

Palomides.     Alladine  I 

Alladine.     Palomides ! 

Palomides.    Alladine,  Alladine!  .  .  . 

Alladine.  I  am  happy  now  ...  I  have  waited 
so  long!  .  .  . 

Palomides.     I  was  afraid  to  come  .  .   . 

Alladine.     I  am  happy  ...  I  want  to  see  you 

Palomides.  They  have  fastened  the  bandage  so 
tight  that  it  might  be  a  helmet  of  steel  .  .  . 
Do  not  move;  I  have  found  the  gold  threads 

Alladine.  Yes,  yes,  I  will  move  .  .  .  [She 
throws  her  arms  round  him,  and  kisses  him 
again.~\ 

Palomides.  Be  careful.  Do  not  turn  round.  I 
am  afraid  of  hurting  you  .  .  . 

Alladine.  Tear  it  off !  Do  not  mind.  There  is 
nothing  can  hurt  me  now  .  .  . 

Palomides.    I  too  want  to  see  you  .  .  . 

Alladine.  Tear  it  off,  tear  it  off !  I  am  far  be- 
yond reach  of  pain!  .  .  .  Tear  it  off!  You 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     189 

do  not  know  how  gladly  I  would  die  . .  .  Where 
are  we? 

Palomides.  You  will  see,  you  will  see  ...  We 
are  in  the  midst  of  innumerable  grottoes  .  .  . 
there  are  great  blue  caverns,  with  shining  pil- 
lars, and  lofty  arches  .  .  . 

Alladine.  Why  do  you  answer  when  I  speak  to 
you? 

Palomides.  I  care  not  where  we  are  so  we  be 
but  together  .  .  . 

Alladine.    Already  you  love  me  less  .  .  . 

Palomides.    What  do  you  mean? 

Alladine.  Do  I  need  to  be  told  where  I  am,  when 
it  is  on  your  heart  that  I  lie?  ...  I  beseech 
you,  tear  off  the  bandage  I  ...  It  shall  not 
be  like  one  who  is  blind  that  I  enter  your  soul 
.  .  .  What  are  you  doing,  Palomides?  You  do 
not  laugh  when  I  laugh,  or  cry  when  I  cry. 
You  do  not  clap  your  hands  when  I  clap  mine; 
you  do  not  tremble  when  I  speak  and  tremble 
in  the  depths  of  my  heart  .  .  .  The  bandage, 
the  bandage !  .  .  .  I  want  to  see !  .  .  .  Tear 
it  off,  pull  it  over  my  hair !  [she  tears  of  the  ban- 
dage]. Oh! ... 

Palomides.    You  can  see? 

Alladine.    Yes,  I  see  you  .  .  .  and  only  you  .  .  . 

Palomides.  What  is  it,  Alladine?  Why  are  your 
kisses  already  so  sorrowful? 

1  Alladine.     Where  are  we? 

Palomides.    Why  do  you  ask  that  so  sadly? 


1 9o     ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

Alladine.  I  am  not  sad,  but  I  scarcely  can  open 
my  eyes  .  .  . 

Palomides.  I  feel  as  though  your  joy  had  fallen 
on  my  lips  as  a  child  might  fall  on  the  threshold 
of  its  father's  house  .  .  .  Do  not  turn  from 
me  .  .  .  I  am  afraid  of  your  leaving  me,  afraid 
lest  this  all  be  a  dream  .  .  . 

Alladine.    Where  are  we? 

Palomides.  In  the  midst  of  caverns  I  never  have 
seen  .  .  .  Does  it  not  seem  as  though  more 
light  were  coming  towards  us? — When  I  opened 
my  eyes  all  was  dark;  now,  little  by  little,  all 
seems  to  be  clear  to  me.  I  have  often  heard 
of  the  marvellous  caverns  that  lay  beneath  Ab- 
lamore's  palace;  these  must  be  they.  No  one 
ever  went  into  them;  and  only  the  King  had 
the  keys.  I  knew  that  the  sea  flooded  those 
that  lay  deepest;  and  the  light  we  behold  is 
doubtless  thrown  up  by  the  sea  .  .  .  They 
thought  they  were  burying  us  in  darkness. 
They  came  hither  with  lanterns  and  torches, 
and  saw  only  blackness;  but  the  light  comes  to 
us  who  have  nothing  ...  It  grows  brighter 
and  brighter  ...  It  must  be  the  dawn  that  is 
piercing  the  ocean,  and  sending  us,  through  the 
green  waves,  all  the  purity  of  its  innocent  soul 

Alladine.     How  long  have  we  been  here? 
Palomides.     I   cannot  tell  ...   I  had  made  no 

effort  until  I  heard  your  voice  .   .   . 
Alladine.    I  know  not  how  it  all  happened.    I  was 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     191 

asleep  in  the  room  where  you  had  found  me; 
when  I  awoke  my  eyes  were  bound  and  my  two 
hands  tied  to  my  belt  .  .  . 

Palomides.  I  too  was  asleep  ...  I  heard  noth- 
ing, and  before  I  could  open  my  eyes  the  ban- 
dage was  over  them.  I  struggled  fiercely,  in 
the  darkness,  but  they  were  stronger  than  I 
.  .  .  They  must  have  led  me  through  deep- 
lying  vaults,  for  I  could  feel  the  cold  dripping 
on  to  my  shoulders;  I  went  down  and  down  so 
long  that  I  could  not  keep  count  of  the  steps 
.  .  .  They  said  nothing  to  you? 

Alladine.  Not  a  word.  But  I  could  hear  that 
some  one  was  weeping  as  he  walked  by  my  side ; 
and  then  I  fainted  .  .  . 

Palomides  [kissing  her~\.     Alladine! 

Alladine.     How  gravely  you  kiss  me  .  .  . 

Palomides.  Do  not  close  your  eyes  when  I  kiss 
you  ...  I  want  to  look  into  your  heart  and 
see  my  kisses  quivering  there,  and  the  dew  that 
steals  up  from  your  soul  .  .  .  never  again  shall 
we  know  such  kisses  as  these  .  .  . 

Alladine.    Always,  always! 

Palomides.  Not  so;  for  our  lips  meet  now  over 
the  bosom  of  death;  and  that  can  happen  but 
once  .  .  .  Oh,  you  are  beautiful  thus!  ...  It 
is  the  first  time  that  I  have  been  near  to  you, 
that  I  have  looked  into  your  eyes  ...  It  is 
strange;  people  pass  by  each  other  and  think 
they  have  seen ;  yet  how  does  everything  change 
the  moment  the  lips  have  met  .  .  .  There;  do 


192     ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

as  you  will ...  I  stretch  out  my  arms  to  admire 
you  as  though  you  no  longer  were  mine;  then  I 
bring  them  together  until  I  again  meet 
your  kiss,  and  I  see  only  joy  everlasting  .  .  . 
We  needed  this  unearthly  light!  .  .  .  [He 
kisses  her  again.~\  Ah!  what  have  you  done? 
Be  careful;  we  are  on  the  crest  of  a  rock  that 
hangs  over  the  light-giving  water.  Do  not 
move.  It  was  time  .  .  .  Do  not  turn  round  too 
quickly.  I  was  dazzled  .  .  . 

Alladine  [turning  and  looking  at  the  blue  water 
whence  the  light  is  thrown  up~\.  Oh!  .  .  . 

Palomides.  It  seems  as  though  the  sky  itself  were 
flowing  towards  us  ... 

Alladine.    It  is  full  of  motionless  flowers  .  .  . 

Palomides.  Full  of  strange  and  motionless  flow- 
ers .  .  .  See,  there  is  one  out  yonder,  larger 
than  all  the  others,  that  shoots  out  its  petals 
beneath  them  .  .  .  One  can  almost  hear  the 
rhythmic  beat  of  its  life  .  .  .  And  the  water, 
if  water  it  be,  seems  bluer,  more  beautiful,  purer 
than  all  the  waters  of  earth  .  .  . 

Alladine.    I  am  afraid  to  look  any  longer  .  .  . 

Palomides.  See  how  the  light  now  shines  over  all 
.  .  .  The  light  dare  no  longer  waver:  and  in 
the  vestibule  of  heaven  do  we  kiss  one  another 
.  .  .  Look  at  the  jewels  in  the  roof:  they  are 
drunk  with  life,  they  seem  to  smile  on  us;  look 
at  the  myriad  roses,  of  deep  glowing  blue,  that 
twine  themselves  all  round  the  pillars  .  .  . 

Alladine.    Oh!  .       ,1  heard!  . 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     193 

Palo  mides.    What  ? 

Alladine.    I  heard  some  one  striking  the  rocks  .  .  . 

Palomides.  No,  no;  it  is  only  the  golden  gates 
of  an  unknown  heaven  that  are  flung  open  wide 
in  our  soul,  and  sing  as  they  turn  on  their 
hinges!  .  .  . 

Alladine.     Listen  .   .  .  again,  again!   .   .  . 

Palomides  [with  a  sudden  change  of  voice].  Yes; 
it  is  out  yonder  .  .  .  beneath  the  vault  that  is 
bluest  of  all  ... 

Alladine.     They  are  coming  to  ... 

Palomides.  I  hear  the  iron  striking  the  rock  .  .  . 
They  walled  up  the  door,  perhaps,  or  are  un- 
able to  open  it  ...  The  axes  crunch  on  the 
stone  .  .  .  His  soul  has  whispered  to  him  that 
we  were  happy  .  .  .  [A  silence;  then  a  stone 
falls  away  from  the  extreme  end  of  the  roof, 
and  a  ray  of  daylight  breaks  into  the  cavern] 

Alladine.     Oh!   ... 

Palomides.  This  light  is  different  .  .  .  [They 
stand  there,  motionless,  anxiously  watching 
stone  after  stone  as  it  slides  slowly  away  and 
falls  to  the  ground,  beneath  a  light  that  can 
scarcely  be  borne;  a  light  that  streams  into  the 
cavern  with  ever  more  resistless  abundance,  re- 
vealing little  by  little  the  wretchedness  of  the 
grotto  that  had  seemed  so  marvellous  to  them; 
the  miraculous  lake  becomes  dull  and  sinister; 
the  light  fades  out  of  the  stones  in  the  rocks> 
and  the  ardent  roses  are  seen  to  be  nothing  but 
fungus  and  decaying  matter.  At  last  a  whole 


194    ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

side  of  the  rock  falls  bodily  into  the  grotto. 

The  sun  streams  in,  overwhelming  all.   Shouts 

and  cries  are  heard  from  without.    Alladine  and 

Palomides  draw  back] 
Palomides.    Where  are  we? 
Alladine  [embracing  him  sadly].    And  yet  do  I 

love  you,  Palomides  .  .  . 
Palomides.    I  love  you  too,  my  Alladine  .  .  . 
Alladine.     They  are  coming  .  .  . 
Talomides   [looking  behind  him  as  they  retreat 

still  further].    Take  care  .  .  . 
Alladine.    No,  no,  we  need  no  longer  take  care 

•     •     • 

Palomides  [looking  at  her~\.    Alladine?  .  .  . 

Alladine.  Yes.  [They  retreat  further  and  fur- 
ther before  the  invasion  of  light  or  danger, 
until  at  length  they  lose  their  footing;  they  fall, 
and  disappear  behind  the  rock  that  overhangs 
the  subterranean  water,  now  all  enwrapped  in 
gloom.  There  is  a  moment's  silence;  then  Asto- 
laine  and  the  sisters  of  Palomides  enter  the 
grotto.] 

Astolaine.    Where  are  they? 

One  of  Palomides'  Sisters.    Palomides ! 

Astolaine.    Alladine,  Alladine! 

Another  Sister.    Palomides !    We  are  here ! 

A  Third  Sister.    Fear  nothing;  we  are  alone! 

Astolaine.    Come  to  us;  we  are  here  to  save  you! 

A  Fourth  Sister.    Ablamore  has  fled  .  .  . 

A  Fifth  Sister.    He  is  no  longer  in  the  palace  .  .  . 

A  Sixth  Sister.    They  do  not  answer  .  .  . 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     195 

Astolaine.  I  heard  a  movement  in  the  water — 
this  way,  this  way!  [They  rush  to  the  rock 
that  hangs  over  the  subterranean  water.] 

One  of  the  Sisters.     There  they  are ! 

Another  Sister.  Yes,  yes,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
black  water  .  .  .  They  are  lying  in  each  other's 
arms  .  .  . 

A  Third  Sister.    They  are  dead! 

A  Fourth  Sister.  No,  no,  they  live,  they  live  .  .  . 
Look  .  .  . 

The  Other  Sisters.    Help!    Help!    Call  for  help! 

Astolaine.  They  make  no  effort  to  save  them- 
selves . 


ACTV 

[A  corridor.  ] 

[7f  is  so  long  that  the  last  arches  seem  to  be  lost 
in  a  kind  of  inner  horizon.  Innumerable  doors, 
all  of  them  closed,  are  seen  on  both  sides  of 
the  corridor;  the  sisters  of  Palomides  stand  be- 
fore one  of  these,  over  which  they  seem  to  keep 
guard.  A  little  further,  on  the  opposite  side, 
Astolaine  stands,  speaking  to  the  doctor,  in 
front  of  a  door  which  is  also  closed.] 

Astolaine  [Jo  the  doctor].  Hitherto  nothing  had 
happened,  in  this  palace,  where  all  seemed  to 
have  been  steeped  in  slumber  since  the  death 
of  my  sisters;  then  a  strange  unreasoning  rest- 
lessness seized  hold  of  my  poor  father — he 
began  to  chafe  under  this  tranquillity  that  yet 
would  seem  to  be  the  least  dangerous  form  of 
happiness.  Some  time  ago — his  reason  must 
have  already  been  shaken — he  climbed  to  the 
top  of  the  tower,  and  stretched  both  his  arms 
out,  timidly,  towards  mountain  and  sea ;  and 
said  to  me — with  a  diffident  smile,  for  he  saw 
that  I  looked  incredulous — that  he  was  sum- 
moning to  us  the  events  that  too  long  had  re- 
mained concealed  in  the  horizon.  Alas,  the 
196 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     197 

events  have  come:  more  quickly,  more  numer- 
ous too,  than  he  had  expected;  and  it  has  needed 
a  few  days  only  for  them  to  dethrone  him  and 
reign  in  his  stead.  He  was  the  first  of  their 
victims.  He  fled  to  the  meadows,  singing  and 
weeping,  the  night  he  had  caused  little  Alladine 
and  ill-fated  Palomides  to  be  entombed  in  the 
grotto.  And  since  then  no  one  has  seen  him. 
I  have  sent  men  in  search  of  him  all  over  the 
country,  and  even  on  to  the  sea.  They  have 
found  not  a  trace  of  him.  But  at  least  I  had 
hoped  to  save  those  on  whom  he  had  uncon- 
sciously brought  this  suffering,  he  who  always 
had  been  the  tenderest  of  men  and  the  best  of 
fathers;  but  here  too  I  fear  I  have  come  too 
late.  I  know  nothing  of  what  took  place.  So 
far  they  have  said  not  a  word.  It  appears  that 
they  thought,  when  they  heard  the  iron  crushing 
the  stone  and  the  light  streamed  into  the  cave, 
that  my  father  regretted  the  respite  he  had  ac- 
corded and  that  they  who  approached  brought 
death.  Or  it  may  be  that  they  lost  their  footing 
as  they  retreated  along  the  rock  which  hangs 
over  the  lake,  and  fell  in  by  accident.  But  the 
water  there  is  not  deep ;  and  we  had  no  difficulty 
in  saving  them.  At  present  it  is  you,  and  you 
only,  on  whom  all  depends  .  .  .  \The  sisters 
of  Palomides  have  drawn  near  to  them.'] 
The  Doctor.  They  are  suffering  both  from  the 
same  disease,  and  it  is  one  that  I  know  not. — 
But  I  have  little  hope.  It  may  be  that  the  chill 


198     ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

of  that  underground  water  has  seized  hold  of 
them ;  or  the  water  itself  perhaps  may  be  poison- 
ous. The  decomposed  body  of  Alladine's  lamb 
has  been  found  there. — I  will  come  again  this 
evening.  In  the  meantime,  they  need  silence 
.  .  .  Life  has  ebbed  very  low  in  their  heart 
.  .  .  Do  not  enter  their  rooms,  or  speak  to 
them;  for  in  their  present  state  the  least  word 
may  be  fatal  .  .  .  They  must  try  to  forget  one 
another  .  .  .  [He  goesJ\ 

One  of  Palomides'  Sisters.  I  can  see  that  he  is 
going  to  die  .  .  . 

Astolaine.  No,  no  ...  do  not  weep  ...  at  his 
age  death  does  not  come  so  quickly  .  .  . 

Another  Sister.  Why  was  your  father  so  angry 
with  our  poor  brother?  He  had  no  cause  .  .  . 

The  Third  Sister.  I  believe  your  father  must 
have  loved  Alladine  .  .  . 

Astolaine.  Do  not  speak  of  him  thus  .  .  .  He 
thought  I  was  unhappy.  He  imagined  he  was 
doing  right,  and  did  wrong  without  knowing  it 
.  .  .  That  happens  often  to  us  all  ...  I  re- 
member now  .  .  .  One  night  I  was  asleep ;  and 
wept  in  my  dream  .  .  .  We  have  so  little  cour- 
age when  we  dream  ...  I  awoke;  he  was 
standing  by  my  bedside,  looking  at  me  .  .  . 
And  he  misunderstood,  perhaps  .  .  . 

The  Fourth  Sister  {hurrying  towards  them~\.  I 
heard  Alladine  move  in  her  room  .  .  . 

Astolaine.  Go  to  the  door;  listen — it  is  perhaps 
only  the  nurse  .  .  . 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     199 

The  Fifth  Sister.  No,  no ;  I  can  hear  the  nurse's 
footsteps  .  .  .  This  noise  is  different  .  .  . 

The  Sixth  Sister.  I  believe  Palomides  has  moved 
too  ...  I  seemed  to  hear  a  voice  that  was 
striving  to  speak. 

The  Voice  of  Alladine  [very  feebly,  from  within 
the  room}.  Palomides!  .  .  . 

One  of  the  Sisters.    She  is  calling  to  him!  .  .  . 

Astolaine.  We  must  take  care !  .  .  .  Go,  stand 
in  front  of  the  door,  so  that  Palomides  may 
not  hear  .  .  . 

The  Voice  of  Alladine.    Palomides !   .  .   . 

Astolaine.  O  God,  O  God,  silence  that  voice! 
If  Palomides  hears  it,  he  will  die !  .  .  . 

The  Voice  of  Palomides  [very  feebly,  from  with- 
in another  room~\.  Alladine!  .  .  . 

One  of  the  Sisters.     He  is  answering!  .   .   . 

Astolaine.  Do  three  of  you  stay  here;  the  rest 
of  us  will  go  to  the  other  door.  Come,  we  must 
hasten — we  will  surround  them,  try  to  protect 
them  .  .  .  Lie  right  against  the  panels — per- 
haps they  will  not  hear  .  .  . 

One  of  the  Sisters.     I  will  go  in  to  Alladine  .   .  . 

The  Second  Sister.  Yes,  yes;  prevent  her  from 
calling  again  .  .  . 

The  Third  Sister.  It  is  she  who  has  caused  all 
this  sorrow  .  .  . 

Astolaine.  You  shall  not  go  in;  or  if  you  do  then 
will  I  go  to  Palomides.  She  had  the  same  right 
to  live  as  the  rest  of  us,  and  she  has  done 
nothing  more  .  .  .  But  to  be  unable  to  stifle 


200     ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

these  death-dealing  words  as  they  pass  by  us! 

.   .   .  We  can  do  nothing,  my  sisters,  my  poor 

sisters,  we  can  do  nothing;  and  the  hand  cannot 

stay  the  soul!  .  .  . 

The  Voice  of  Alladine.     Palomides — is  that  you? 
The  Voice  of  Palomides.     Where  are  you,  Alla- 
dine? 
The  Voice  of  Alladine.     Is  it  you  that  I  hear 

moaning,  far  away  from  me? 
The  Voice  of  Palomides.     Is  it  you  that  I  have 

heard  calling  me? — I  cannot  see  you  .  .  . 
The  Voice  of  Alladine.    Your  voice  seems  to  have 

lost  all  hope  .  .  . 
The  Voice  of  Palomides.    Yours  seems  already  to 

have  passed  through  death  .  .  . 
The    Voice    of   Alladine.     Your   voice    scarcely 

reaches  my  room  .  .  . 
The  Voice  of  Palomides.     Nor  does  yours  sound 

to  me  as  it  used  to  sound  .  .  . 
The  Voice  of  Alladine.     I  had  pity  on  you !   .   .   . 
The  Voice  of  Palomides.     They  have  parted  us, 

but  I  always  shall  love  you  .   .   . 
The  Voice  of  Alladine.     I  had  pity  on  you  .   .  . 

are  you  suffering  still? 
The  Voice  of  Palomides.     I  suffer  no  more,  but  I 

want  to  see  you  .  .  . 
The  Voice  of  Alladine.    Never  again  shall  we  see 

one  another,  for  the  doors  are  all  closed  .  .   . 
The  Voice  of  Palomides.     There  is  that  in  your 

voice  that  tells  me  you  love  me  no  longer  .   .   . 


ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES     201 

The  Voice  of  Alladine.    Yes,  yes,  I  love  you  still, 

but  now  all  is  sorrow  .   .  . 
The  Voice  of  Palomides.     You  are  turning  away 

...  I  scarcely  can  hear  you  .  .  . 
The  Voice  of  Alladine.    We  seem  to  be  hundreds 

of  miles  from  each  other  .  .  . 
The  Voice  of  Palomides.    I  have  tried  to  rise,  but 

my  soul  is  too  heavy  .   .   . 
The  Voice  of  Alladine.     I  have  tried,  too,  but 

my  head  fell  back  .   .  . 
The  Voice  of  Palomides.     As  I  listen  I  seem  to 

hear  your  tears  fall  ... 
The  Voice  of  Alladine.     No;  for  a  long  time  I 

wept;  but  now  these  are  no  longer  tears  .   .  . 
The  Voice  of  Palomides.     You  are  thinking  of 

something  that  you  will  not  tell  me  .  .  . 
The  Voice  of  Alladine.    They  were  not  jewels  .  .  . 
The  Voice  of  Palomides.     And  the  flowers  were 

not  real  .  .   . 

One  of  Palomides'  Sisters.    They  are  delirious  .  .  . 
Astolaine.     No,  no;  they  are  well  aware  of  what 

they  are  saying  .   .   . 
The  Voice  of  Alladine.    It  was  the  light  that  had 

no  pity  .   .   . 

The  Voice  of  Palomides.    Whither  go  you,  Alla- 
dine?   You  seem  to  be  further  and  further  away 

from  me  .   .   . 
The  Voice  of  Alladine.     I  no  longer  regret  the 

rays  of  the  sun  .   .   . 
The  Voice  of  Palomides.    Yes,  yes,  we  shall  again 

behold  the  trees  and  the  flowers!  . 


202     ALLADINE  AND  PALOMIDES 

The  Voice  of  Alladine.  I  have  lost  the  desire  to 
live  .  .  ,  \_A  silence;  then  more  and  more 
feebly.] 

The  Voice  of  Palomides.    Alladine  I  * •  -,  ? 

The  Voice  of  Alladine.    Palomides!  *  .  . 

The  Voice  of  Palomides.  Alia — dine  .  »  .  [A 
silence.  Astolaine  and  the  sisters  of  Pdlomides 
are  listening  in  intense  anguish.  Then  the  nurse 
throws  open  the  door  of  Palomides'  room  from 
within,  appears  on  the  threshold,  and  beckons 
to  them;  they  all  follow  her  into  the  room  and 
close  the  door.  Once  more  there  is  silence. 
Then  the  door  of  Alladine's  room  opens;  the 
other  nurse  comes  out  and  looks  about  her  in 
the  corridor;  seeing  no  one  she  goes  back  into 
the  room,  leaving  the  door  wide  open.] 


INTERIOR 

[Translated  by  William  Archer. ~\ 


CHARACTERS 

In  the  Garden — 
THE  OLD  MAN 
THE  STRANGER 

A!          u ^Granddaughters  of  the  Old  Man 

A  PEASANT 
THE  CROWD 

In  the  House — 

THE  FATHER  1 

THE  MOTHER  CM 

r^       r~  ^Silent  personages 

THE  Two  DAUGHTERS  | 

THE  CHILD 

The  interval  that  elapses  between  the  occurrence  of  a  disas- 
ter and  the  breaking  of  the  news  to  the  bereaved  is  one  full 
of  tragedy;  and  here  the  pathetic  ignorance  of  the  drowned 
girl's  family  and  the  painful  knowledge  of  the  reluctant  bear- 
ers of  the  evil  tidings  provide  material  for  a  touching  little 
play — slight  material  to  all  appearance,  but  in  the  hands  of 
M.  Maeterlinck  sufficient  for  the  display  of  a  wealth  of  kindly 
wisdom  and  sympathetic  knowledge  of  human  nature. 


INTERIOR 

[An  old  garden  'planted  with  willows."] 

[At  the  back,  a  house,  with  three  of  the  ground- 
floor  windows  lighted  up.  Through  them  a 
family  is  -pretty  distinctly  visible,  gathered  for 
the  evening  round  the  lamp.  The  Father  is 
seated  at  the  chimney  corner.  The  Mother, 
resting  one  elbow  on  the  table,  is  gazing  into 
vacancy.  Two  young  girls,  dressed  in  white,  sit 
at  their  embroidery,  dreaming  and  smiling  in 
the  tranquillity  of  the  room.  A  child  is  asleep, 
his  head  resting  on  his  mother's  left  arm.  When 
one  of  them  rises,  walks,  or  makes  a  gesture, 
the  movements  appear  grave,  slow,  apart,  and 
as  though  spiritualised  by  the  distance,  the  light, 
and  the  transparent  film  of  the  window-panes.^ 

[The  Old  Man  and  the  Stranger  enter  the  garden 
cautiously .] 

The  Old  Man.  Here  we  are  in  the  part  of  the 
garden  that  lies  behind  the  house.  They  never 
come  here.  The  doors  are  on  the  other  side. 
They  are  closed  and  the  shutters  shut.  But 
there  are  no  shutters  on  this  side  of  the  house, 
and  I  saw  the  light  .  .  .  Yes,  they  are  still 
sitting  up  in  the  lamplight.  It  is  well  that  they 
have  not  heard  us ;  the  mother  or  the  girls  would 
207 


208  INTERIOR 

perhaps  have  come  out,  and  then  what  should 
we  have  done? 

The  Stranger.     What  are  we  going  to  do? 

The  Old  Man.  I  want  first  to  see  if  they  are  all 
in  the  room.  Yes,  I  see  the  father  seated  at 
the  chimney  corner.  He  is  doing  nothing,  his 
hands  resting  on  his  knees.  The  mother  is 
leaning  her  elbow  on  the  table  .  .  . 

The  Stranger.    She  is  looking  at  us. 

The  Old  Man.  No,  she  is  looking  at  nothing;  her 
eyes  are  fixed.  She  cannot  see  us;  we  are  in 
the  shadow  of  the  great  trees.  But  do  not  go 
any  nearer  .  .  .  There,  too,  are  the  dead  girl's 
two  sisters;  they  are  embroidering  slowly.  And 
the  little  child  has  fallen  asleep.  It  is  nine  on 
the  clock  in  the  corner  .  .  .  They  divine  no 
evil,  and  they  do  not  speak. 

The  Stranger.  If  we  were  to  attract  the  father's 
attention,  and  make  some  sign  to  him?  He 
has  turned  his  head  this  way.  Shall  I  knock 
at  one  of  the  windows?  One  of  them  will  have 
to  hear  of  it  before  the  others  .  .  . 

The  Old  Man.  I  do  not  know  which  to  choose 
.  .  .  We  must  be  very  careful.  The  father  is 
old  and  ailing — the  mother  too — and  the  sisters 
are  too  young  .  .  .  And  they  all  loved  her  as 
they  will  never  love  again.  I  have  never  seen 
a  happier  household  .  .  .  No,  no !  do  not  go 
up  to  the  window;  that  would  be  the  worst  thing 
we  could  do.  It  is  better  that  we  should  tell 
them  of  it  as  simply  as  we  can,  as  though  it 


INTERIOR  209 

were  a  commonplace  occurrence;  and  we  must 
not  appear  too  sad,  else  they  will  feel  that  their 
sorrow  must  exceed  ours,  and  they  will  not 
know  what  to  do  ...  Let  us  go  round  to  the 
other  side  of  the  garden.  We  will  knock  at  the 
door,  and  go  in  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
I  will  go  in  first:  they  will  not  be  surprised  to 
see  me;  I  sometimes  look  in  of  an  evening,  to 
bring  them  some  flowers  or  fruit,  and  to  pass 
an  hour  or  two  with  them. 

The  Stranger.  Why  do  you  want  me  to  go  with 
you?  Go  alone;  I  will  wait  until  you  call  me. 
They  have  never  seen  me — I  am  only  a  passer- 
by, a  stranger  .  .  . 

The  Old  Man.  It  is  better  that  I  should  not  be 
alone.  A  misfortune  announced  by  a  single 
voice  seems  more  definite  and  crushing.  I 
thought  of  that  as  I  came  along  ...  If  I  go 
in  alone,  I  shall  have  to  speak  at  the  very  first 
moment;  they  will  know  all  in  a  few  words;  I 
shall  have  nothing  more  to  say;  and  I  dread 
the  silence  which  follows  the  last  words  that  tell 
of  a  misfortune.  It  is  then  that  the  heart  is 
torn.  If  we  enter  together,  I  shall  go  round- 
about to  work;  I  shall  tell  them,  for  example: 
"They  found  her  thus,  or  thus  .  .  .  She  was 
floating  on  the  stream,  and  her  hands  were 
clasped  .  .  ." 

The  Stranger.  Her  hands  were  not  clasped;  her 
arms  were  floating  at  her  sides. 

The  Old  Man.    You  see,  in  spite  of  ourselves  we 


210  INTERIOR 

begin  to  talk — and  the  misfortune  is  shrouded 
in  its  details.  Otherwise,  if  I  go  in  alone,  I 
know  them  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  the  very 
first  words  would  produce  a  terrible  effect,  and 
God  knows  what  would  happen.  But  if  we  speak 
to  them  in  turns,  they  will  listen  to  us,  and  will 
forget  to  look  the  evil  tidings  in  the  face.  Do 
not  forget  that  the  mother  will  be  there,  and 
that  her  life  hangs  by  a  thread  ...  It  is  well 
that  the  first  wave  of  sorrow  should  waste  its 
strength  in  unnecessary  words.  It  is  wisest  to 
let  people  gather  round  the  unfortunate  and 
talk  as  they  will.  Even  the  most  indifferent 
carry  off,  without  knowing  it,  some  portion  of 
the  sorrow.  It  is  dispersed  without  effort  and 
without  noise,  like  air  or  light  .  .  . 

The  Stranger.  Your  clothes  are  soaked  and  are 
dripping  on  the  flagstones. 

The  Old  Man.  It  is  only  the  skirt  of  my  mantle 
that  has  trailed  a  little  in  the  water.  You  seem 
to  be  cold.  Your  coat  is  all  muddy  ...  I  did 
not  notice  it  on  the  way,  it  was  so  dark. 

The  Stranger.  I  went  into  the  water  up  to  my 
waist. 

The  Old  Man.  Had  you  found  her  long  when 
I  came  up  ? 

The  Stranger.  Only  a  few  moments.  I  was  going 
towards  the  village ;  it  was  already  late,  and  the 
dusk  was  falling  on  the  river  bank.  I  was 
walking  along  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  river, 
because  it  was  lighter  than  the  road,  when  I  saw 


INTERIOR  211 

something  strange  close  by  a  tuft  of  reeds  .  .  . 
I  drew  nearer,  and  I  saw  her  hair,  which  had 
floated  up  almost  into  a  circle  round  her  head, 
and  was  swaying  hither  and  thither  with  the 
current  .  .  .  [/«  the  room,  the  two  young  girls 
turn  their  heads  towards  the  window. ,] 

The  Old  Man.  Did  you  see  her  two  sisters'  hair 
trembling  on  their  shoulders? 

The  Stranger.  They  turned  their  heads  in  our 
direction — they  simply  turned  their  heads.  Per- 
haps I  was  speaking  too  loudly.  [  The  two  girls 
resume  their  former  position.]  They  have 
turned  away  again  already  ...  I  went  into 
the  water  up  to  my  waist,  and  then  I  managed 
to  grasp  her  hand  and  easily  drew  her  to  the 
bank.  She  was  as  beautiful  as  her  sisters  .  .  . 

The  Old  Man.  I  think  she  was  more  beautiful 
...  I  do  not  know  why  I  have  lost  all  my 
courage  .  .  . 

The  Stranger.  What  courage  do  you  mean?  We 
did  all  that  man  could  do.  She  had  been  dead 
for  more  than  an  hour. 

The  Old  Man.  She  was  living  this  morning!  I 
met  her  coming  out  of  the  church.  She  told 
me  that  she  was  going  away;  she  was  going  to 
see  her  grandmother  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river  in  which  you  found  her.  She  did  not  know 
when  I  should  see  her  again  .  .  .  She  seemed 
to  be  on  the  point  of  asking  me  something;  then 
I  suppose  she  did  not  dare,  and  she  left  me 
abruptly.  But  now  that  I  think  of  it — and  I 


212  INTERIOR 

noticed  nothing  at  the  time! — she  smiled  as 
people  smile  who  want  to  be  silent,  or  who  fear 
that  they  will  not  be  understood  .  .  .  Even 
hope  seemed  like  a  pain  to  her;  her  eyes  were 
veiled,  and  she  scarcely  looked  at  me. 

The  Stranger.  Some  peasants  told  me  that  they 
saw  her  wandering  all  the  afternoon  on  the 
bank.  They  thought  she  was  looking  for  flow- 
ers ...  It  is  possible  that  her  death  .  .  . 

The  Old  Man.  No  one  can  tell  .  .  .  What  can 
any  one  know?  She  was  perhaps  one  of  those 
who  shrink  from  speech,  and  every  one  bears  in 
his  breast  more  than  one  reason  for  ceasing  to 
live.  You  cannot  see  into  the  soul  as  you  see 
into  that  room.  They  are  all  like  that — they 
say  nothing  but  trivial  things,  and  no  one  dreams 
that  there  is  aught  amiss.  You  live  for  months 
by  the  side  of  one  who  is  no  longer  of  this 
world,  and  whose  soul  cannot  stoop  to  it;  you 
answer  her  unthinkingly ;  and  you  see  what  hap- 
pens. They  look  like  lifeless  puppets,  and  all 
the  time  so  many  things  are  passing  in  their 
souls.  They  do  not  themselves  know  what  they 
are.  She  might  have  lived  as  the  others  live. 
She  might  have  said  to  the  day  of  her  death: 
"Sir,  or  Madam,  it  will  rain  this  morning,"  or, 
"We  are  going  to  lunch;  we  shall  be  thirteen 
at  table,"  or  "The  fruit  is  not  yet  ripe."  They 
speak  smilingly  of  the  flowers  that  have  fallen, 
and  they  weep  in  the  darkness.  An  angel  from 
heaven  would  not  see  what  ought  to  be  seen; 


INTERIOR  213 

and  men  understand  nothing  until  after  all  is 
over  .  .  .  Yesterday  evening  she  was  there, 
sitting  in  the  lamplight  like  her  sisters ;  and  you 
would  not  see  them  now  as  they  ought  to  be  seen 
if  this  had  not  happened  ...  I  seem  to  see 
her  for  the  first  time  .  .  .  Something  new  must 
come  into  our  ordinary  life  before  we  can  under- 
stand it.  They  are  at  your  side  day  and  night; 
and  you  do  not  really  see  them  until  the  mo- 
ment when  they  depart  for  ever.  And  yet, 
what  a  strange  little  soul  she  must  have  had — 
what  a  poor  little,  artless,  unfathomable  soul 
she  must  have  had — to  have  said  what  she  must 
have  said,  and  done  what  she  must  have  done ! 

The  Stranger.  See,  they  are  smiling  in  the  silence 
of  the  room  .  .  . 

The  Old  Man.  They  are  not  at  all  anxious — they 
did  not  expect  her  this  evening. 

The  Stranger.  They  sit  motionless  and  smiling. 
But  see,  the  father  puts  his  fingers  to  his  lips 

The  Old  Man.    He  points  to  the  child  asleep  on 

its  mother's  breast  .  .  . 
The  Stranger.     She  dares  not  raise  her  head  for 

fear  of  disturbing  it  ... 
The  Old  Man.     They  are  not  sewing  any  more. 

There  is  a  dead  silence  .  .  . 
The  Stranger.     They  have  let  fall  their  skein  of 

white  silk  .   .   . 
The  Old  Man.    They  are  looking  at  the  child  .  .  . 


214  INTERIOR 

The  Stranger.  They  do  not  know  that  others  are 
looking  at  them  .  .  . 

The  Old  Man.    We,  too,  are  watched  .  .  . 

The  Stranger.    They  have  raised  their  eyes  .  .  . 

The  Old  Man.    And  yet  they  can  see  nothing  .  .  . 

The  Stranger.  They  seem  to  be  happy,  and  yet 
there  is  something — I  cannot  tell  what  .  .  . 

The  Old  Man.  They  think  themselves  beyond  the 
reach  of  danger.  They  have  closed  the  doors, 
and  the  windows  are  barred  with  iron.  They 
have  strengthened  the  walls  of  the  old  house; 
they  have  shot  the  bolts  of  the  three  oaken 
doors.  They  have  foreseen  everything  that  can 
be  foreseen  .  .  . 

The  Stranger.  Sooner  or  later  we  must  tell  them. 
Some  one  might  come  in  and  blurt  it  out 
abruptly.  There  was  a  crowd  of  peasants  in  the 
meadow  where  we  left  the  dead  girl — if  one  of 
them  were  to  come  and  knock  at  the  door  .  .  . 

The  Old  Man.  Martha  and  Mary  are  watching 
the  little  body.  The  peasants  were  going  to 
make  a  litter  of  branches;  and  I  told  my  eldest 
granddaughter  to  hurry  on  and  let  us  know  the 
moment  they  made  a  start.  Let  us  wait  till  she 
comes;  she  will  go  with  me  ...  I  wish  we 
had  not  been  able  to  watch  them  in  this  way. 
I  thought  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  knock 
at  the  door,  to  enter  quite  simply,  and  to  tell 
all  in  a  few  phrases  .  .  .  But  I  have  watched 
them  too  long,  living  in  the  lamplight  .  .  . 
[Enter  Mary.~\ 


INTERIOR  215 

Mary.    They  are  coming,  grandfather. 

The  Old  Man.     Is  that  you?    Where  are  they? 

Mary.    They  are  at  the  foot  of  the  last  slope. 

The  Old  Man.    They  are  coming  silently. 

Mary.  I  told  them  to  pray  in  a  low  voice.  Mar- 
tha is  with  them. 

The  Old  Man.    Are  there  many  of  them? 

Mary.  The  whole  village  is  around  the  bier. 
They  had  brought  lanterns;  I  bade  them  put 
them  out. 

The  Old  Man.    What  way  are  they  coming? 

Mary.  They  are  coming  by  the  little  paths.  They 
are  moving  slowly. 

The  Old  Man.    It  is  time  .  .  . 

Mary.    Have  you  told  them,  grandfather? 

The  Old  Man.  You  can  see  that  we  have  told 
them  nothing.  There  they  are,  still  sitting  in 
the  lamplight.  Look,  my  child,  look:  you  will 
see  what  life  is  ... 

Mary.  Oh!  how  peaceful  they  seeml  I  feel  as 
though  I  were  seeing  them  in  a  dream. 

The  Stranger.  Look  there — I  saw  the  two  sisters 
give  a  start. 

The  Old  Man.    They  are  rising  .   .  . 

The  Stranger.  I  believe  they  are  coming  to  the 
windows.  [At  this  moment  one  of  the  two  sis- 
ters comes  up  to  the  first  window,  the  other  to 
the  third;  and  resting  their  hands  against  the 
panes  they  stand  gazing  into  the  darkness.] 

The  Old  Man.  No  one  conies  to  the  middle  win- 
dow. 


216  INTERIOR 

Mary.  They  are  looking  out;  they  are  listen- 
ing ... 

The  Old  Man.  The  elder  is  smiling  at  what  she 
does  not  see. 

The  Stranger.  The  eyes  of  the  second  are  full  of 
fear. 

The  Old  Man.  Take  care:  who  knows  how  far 
the  soul  may  extend  around  the  body  .  .  .  [A 
long  silence.  Mary  nestles  close  to  the  old 
man's  breast  and  kisses  himJ\ 

Mary.     Grandfather  1 

The  Old  Man.  Do  not  weep,  my  child;  our  turn 
will  come.  \_A  pause.~\ 

The  Stranger.    They  are  looking  long  .  .  . 

The  Old  Man.  Poor  things,  they  would  see  noth- 
ing though  they  looked  for  a  hundred  thousand 
years — the  night  is  too  dark.  They  are  looking 
this  way;  and  it  is  from  the  other  side  that 
misfortune  is  coming. 

The  Stranger.  It  is  well  that  they  are  looking 
this  way.  Something,  I  do  not  know  what,  is 
approaching  by  way  of  the  meadows. 

Mary.  I  think  it  is  the  crowd;  they  are  too  far 
off  for  us  to  see  clearly. 

The  Stranger.  They  are  following  the  windings 
of  the  path — there  they  come  in  sight  again  on 
that  moonlit  slope. 

Mary.  Oh!  how  many  they  seem  to  be.  Even 
when  I  left,  people  were  coming  up  from  the 
outskirts  of  the  town.  They  are  taking  a  very 
roundabout  way  .  .  . 


INTERIOR  217 

The  Old  Man.  They  will  arrive  at  last,  none 
the  less.  I  see  them,  too — they  are  crossing 
the  meadows — they  look  so  small  that  one  can 
scarcely  distinguish  them  among  the  herbage. 
You  might  think  them  children  playing  in  the 
moonlight;  if  the  girls  saw  them  they  would  not 
understand.  Turn  their  backs  to  it  as  they  may, 
misfortune  is  approaching  step  by  step,  and 
has  been  looming  larger  for  more  than  two 
hours  past.  They  cannot  bid  it  stay;  and  those 
who  are  bringing  it  are  powerless  to  stop  it. 
It  has  mastered  them,  too,  and  they  must  needs 
serve  it.  It  knows  its  goal,  and  it  takes  its 
course.  It  is  unwearying,  and  it  has  but  one  idea. 
They  have  to  lend  it  their  strength.  They  are 
sad,  but  they  draw  nearer.  Their  hearts  are 
full  of  pity,  but  they  must  advance  .  .  . 

Mary.  The  elder  has  ceased  to  smile,  grand- 
father. 

The  Stranger.    They  are  leaving  the  windows  .  .  . 

Mary.    They  are  kissing  their  mother  .  .  . 

The  Stranger.  The  elder  is  stroking  the  child's 
curls  without  wakening  it. 

Mary.  Ah !  the  father  wants  them  to  kiss  him, 
too  .  .  . 

The  Stranger.    Now  there  is  silence  .   .  . 

Mary.  They  have  returned  to  their  mother's 
side. 

The  Stranger.  And  the  father  keeps  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  great  pendulum  of  the  clock  .  .  . 


2i  8  INTERIOR 

Mary.  They  seem  to  be  praying  without  know- 
ing what  they  do  .  .  . 

The  Stranger.  They  seem  to  be  listening  to  their 
own  souls  .  .  .  \_A  pause. ~\ 

Mary.  Grandfather,  do  not  tell  them  this  eve- 
ning! 

The  Old  Man.  You  see,  you  are  losing  courage, 
too.  I  knew  you  ought  not  to  look  at  them.  I 
am  nearly  eighty-three  years  old,  and  this  is 
the  first  time  that  the  reality  of  life  has  come 
home  to  me.  I  do  not  know  why  all  they  do  ap- 
pears to  me  so  strange  and  solemn.  There  they 
sit  awaiting  the  night,  simply,  under  their  lamp, 
as  we  should  under  our  own;  and  yet  I  seem 
to  see  them  from  the  altitude  of  another  world, 
because  I  know  a  little  fact  which  as  yet  they 
do  not  know  ...  Is  it  so,  my  children?  Tell 
me,  why  are  you,  too,  pale?  Perhaps  there  is 
something  else  that  we  cannot  put  in  words, 
and  that  makes  us  weep?  I  did  not  know  that 
there  was  anything  so  sad  in  life,  or  that  it 
could  strike  such  terror  to  those  who  look  on 
at  it.  And  even  if  nothing  had  happened,  it 
would  frighten  me  to  see  them  sit  there  so  peace- 
fully. They  have  too  much  confidence  in  this 
world.  There  they  sit,  separated  from  the 
enemy  by  only  a  few  poor  panes  of  glass.  They 
think  that  nothing  will  happen  because  they 
have  closed  their  doors,  and  they  do  not  know 
that  it  is  in  the  soul  that  things  always  happen, 
and  that  the  world  does  not  end  at  their  house- 


INTERIOR  219 

door.  They  are  so  secure  of  their  little  life, 
and  do  not  dream  that  so  many  others  know 
more  of  it  than  they,  and  that  I,  poor  old  man, 
at  two  steps  from  their  door,  hold  all  their 
little  happiness,  like  a  wounded  bird,  in  the  hol- 
low of  my  old  hands,  and  dare  not  open  them 

Mary.    Have  pity  on  them,  grandfather  .  ».  . 

The  Old  Man.  We  have  pity  on  them,  my  child, 
but  no  one  has  pity  on  us. 

Mary.  Tell  them  to-morrow,  grandfather;  tell 
them  when  it  is  light,  then  they  will  not  be  so 
sad. 

The  Old  Man.  Perhaps  you  are  right,  my  child 
...  It  would  be  better  to  leave  all  this  in 
the  night.  And  the  daylight  is  sweet  to  sorrow 
.  .  .  But  what  would  they  say  to  us  to-morrow? 
Misfortune  makes  people  jealous;  those  upon 
whom  it  has  fallen  want  to  know  of  it  before 
strangers — they  do  not  like  to  leave  it  in  un- 
known hands.  We  should  seem  to  have  robbed 
them  of  something. 

The  Stranger.  Besides,  it  is  too  late  now;  already 
I  can  hear  the  murmur  of  prayers. 

Mary.  They  are  here — they  are  passing  behind 
the  hedges.  [Enter  Martha.] 

Martha.  Here  I  am.  I  have  guided  them  hither 
— I  told  them  to  wait  in  the  road.  [Cries  of 
children  are  heard.]  Ah!  the  children  are 
still  crying.  I  forbade  them  to  come,  but  they 
want  to  see,  too,  and  the  mothers  would  not 


220  INTERIOR 

obey  me.  I  will  go  and  tell  them — no,  they 
have  stopped  crying.  Is  everything  ready?  I 
have  brought  the  little  ring  that  was  found  upon 
her.  I  have  some  fruit,  too,  for  the  child.  I 
laid  her  to  rest  myself  upon  the  bier.  She  looks 
as  though  she  were  sleeping.  I  had  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  with  her  hair — I  could  not  ar- 
range it  properly.  I  made  them  gather  mar- 
guerites— it  is  a  pity  there  were  no  other  flow- 
ers. What  are  you  doing  here?  Why  are  you 
not  with  them?  [She  looks  in  at  the  windows.] 
They  are  not  weeping!  They — you  have  not 
told  them ! 

The  Old  Man.  Martha,  Martha,  there  is  too 
much  life  in  your  soul;  you  cannot  understand 

Martha.  Why  should  I  not  understand?  [After 
a  silence,  and  in  a  tone  of  grave  reproach.] 
You  ought  not  to  have  done  that,  grandfather 

The  Old  Man.     Martha,  you  do  not  know  .  .  . 

Martha.     I  will  go  and  tell  them. 

The  Old  Man.    Remain  here,  my  child,  and  look 

for  a  moment. 
Martha.    Oh,  how  I  pity  them !     They  must  wait 

no  longer  .  .  . 
The  Old  Man.     Why  not? 
Martha.    I  do  not  know,  but  it  is  not  possible  I 
The  Old  Man.    Come  here,  my  child  .   .  . 
Martha.    How  patient  they  are  ! 
The  Old  Man.    Come  here,  my  child  .  .  . 


INTERIOR  221 

Martha  [turning].  Where  are  you,  grandfather? 
I  am  so  unhappy,  I  cannot  see  you  any  more. 
I  do  not  myself  know  now  what  to  do  ... 

The  Old  Man.  Do  not  look  any  more;  until 
they  know  all  ... 

Martha.     I  want  to  go  with  you  .  .  . 

The  Old  Man.  No,  Martha,  stay  here.  Sit  be- 
side your  sister  on  this  old  stone  bench  against 
the  wall  of  the  house,  and  do  not  look.  You 
are  too  young,  you  would  never  be  able  to  for- 
get it.  You  cannot  know  what  a  face  looks  like 
at  the  moment  when  Death  is  passing  into  its 
eyes.  Perhaps  they  will  cry  out,  too  .  .  .  Do 
not  turn  round.  Perhaps  there  will  be  no  sound 
at  all.  Above  all  things,  if  there  is  no  sound, 
be  sure  you  do  not  turn  and  look.  One  can 
never  foresee  the  course  that  sorrow  will  take. 
A  few  little  sobs  wrung  from  the  depths,  and 
generally  that  is  all.  I  do  not  know  myself 
what  I  shall  do  when  I  hear  them — they  do  not 
belong  to  this  life.  Kiss  me,  my  child,  before  I 
go.  {The  murmur  of  'prayers  has  gradually 
drawn  nearer.  A  portion  of  the  crowd  forces 
its  way  into  the  garden.  There  is  a  sound  of 
deadened  footfalls  and  of  whispering.] 

The  Stranger  [to  the  crowd].  Stop  here — do  not 
go  near  the  window.  Where  is  she? 

A  Peasant.    Who? 

The  Stranger.    The  others — the  bearers. 

A  Peasant.  They  are  coming  by  the  avenue  that 
leads  up  to  the  door.  [The  Old  Man  goes  out. 


222  INTERIOR 

Martha  and  Mary  have  seated  themselves  on 

the  bench,  their  backs  to  the  windows.     Low 

murmurings  are  heard  among  the  crowd.] 
The  Stranger.    Hush!     Do  not  speak.     [In  the 

room  the  taller  of  the  two  sisters  rises,  goes  to 

the  door,  and  shoots  the  bolts.] 
Martha.  She  is  opening  the  door? 
The  Stranger.  On  the  contrary,  she  is  fastening 

it.     [A  pause."] 

Martha.     Grandfather  has  not  come  in? 
The  Stranger.    No.     She  takes  her  seat  again  at 

her  mother's  side.     The  others  do  not  move, 

and  the  child  is  still  sleeping.     [A  pause. ~\ 
Martha.    My  little  sister,  give  me  your  hands. 
Mary.     Martha!     [They  embrace  and  kiss  each 

other.] 
The  Stranger.    He  must  have  knocked — they  have 

all  raised  their  heads  at  the  same  time — they 

are  looking  at  each  other. 
Martha.     Oh!  oh!  my  poor  little  sister!     I  can 

scarcely  help  crying  out,  too.     [She  smothers 

her  sobs  on  her  sister's  shoulder.] 
The  Stranger.    He  must  have  knocked  again.  The 

father  is  looking  at  the  clock.    He  rises  .  .  . 
Martha.     Sister,  sister,  I  must  go  in  too — they 

cannot  be  left  alone. 

Mary.    Martha,  Martha  I     [She  holds  her  back] 
The  Stranger.     The  father  is  at  the  door — he  is 

drawing  the  bolts — he  is  opening  it  cautiously. 
Martha.    Oh ! — you  do  not  see  the  .  .  . 
The  Stranger.    What? 


INTERIOR  223 

Martha.    The  bearers  .  .  . 

The  Stranger.  He  has  only  opened  it  a  very  little. 
I  see  nothing  but  a  corner  of  the  lawn  and 
the  fountain.  He  keeps  his  hand  on  the  door 
— he  takes  a  step  back — he  seems  to  be  saying, 
"Ah,  it  is  you !"  He  raises  his  arms.  He  care- 
fully closes  the  door  again.  Your  grandfather 
has  entered  the  room  .  .  .  [The  crowd  has 
come  up  to  the  window.  Martha  and  Mary 
half  rise  from  their  seat,  then  rise  altogether 
and  follow  the  rest  towards  the  windows,  press- 
ing close  to  each  other.  The  Old  Man  is  seen 
advancing  into  the  room.  The  two  Sisters  rise; 
the  Mother  also  rises,  and  carefully  settles  the 
Child  in  the  armchair  which  she  has  left,  so 
that  from  outside  the  little  one  can  be  seen  sleep- 
ing, his  head  a  little  bent  forward,  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  The  Mother  advances  to  meet 
the  Old  Man,  and  holds  out  her  hand  to  him, 
but  draws  it  back  again  before  he  has  had  time 
to  take  it.  One  of  the  girls  wants  to  take  of 
the  visitor's  mantle,  and  the  other  pushes  for- 
ward an  armchair  for  him.  But  the  Old  Man 
makes  a  little  gesture  of  refusal.  The  father 
smiles  with  an  air  of  astonishment.  The  Old 
Man  looks  towards  the  windows. ~\ 

The  Stranger.  He  dares  not  tell  them.  He  is 
looking  towards  us.  \_Murmurs  in  the  crowd '.] 

The  Stranger!  Hush!  [The  Old  Man,  seeing 
faces  at  the  windows,  quickly  averts  his  eyes. 
As  one  of  the  girls  is  still  offering  him  the 


224  INTERIOR 

armchair,  he  at  last  sits  down  and  passes  his 
right  hand  several  times  over  his  forehead.] 

The  Stranger.  He  is  sitting  down  .  .  .  [The 
others  who  are  in  the  room  also  sit  down,  while 
the  Father  seems  to  be  speaking  volubly.  At 
last  the  Old  Man  opens  his  mouth,  and  the 
sound  of  his  voice  seems  to,  arouse  their  atten- 
tion. But  the  Father  interrupts  him.  The  Old 
Man  begins  to  speak  again,  and  little  by  little 
the  others  grow  tense  with  apprehension.  All 
of  a  sudden  the  Mother  starts  and  rises.] 

Martha.  Oh!  the  mother  begins  to  understand  I 
[She  turns  away  and  hides  her  face  in  her  hands. 
Renewed  murmurs  among  the  crowd.  They 
elbow  each  other.  Children  cry  to  be  lifted  up, 
so  that  they  may  see  too.  Most  of  the  mothers 
do  as  they  wish] 

The  Stranger.  Hush!  he  has  not  told  them  yet 
.  .  .  [  The  Mother  is  seen  to  be  questioning  the 
Old  Man  with  anxiety.  He  says  a  few  more 
words;  then,  suddenly,  all  the  others  rise,  too, 
and  seem  to  question  him.  Then  he  slowly 
makes  an  affirmative  movement  of  his  head] 

The  Stranger.  He  has  told  them — he  has  told 
them  all  at  once! 

Foices  in  the  Crowd.  He  has  told  them!  he  has 
told  them ! 

The  Stranger.  I  can  hear  nothing  .  .  .  [The  Old 
Man  also  rises,  and,  without  turning,  makes  a 
gesture  indicating  the  door,  which  is  behind 
him.  The  Mother,  the  Father,  and  the  two 


INTERIOR  225 

Daughters  rush  to  this  door,  which  the  Father 
has  difficulty  in  opening.  The  Old  Man  tries 
to  -prevent  the  Mother  from  going  out.~\ 

Voices  in  the  Crowd.  They  are  going  out!  they 
are  going  out !  [Confusion  among  the  crowd  in 
the  garden.  All  hurry  to  the  other  side  of 
the  house  and  disappear,  except  the  Stranger, 
who  remains  at  the  windows.  In  the  room,  the 
folding  door  is  at  last  thrown  wide  open;  all  go 
out  at  the  same  time.  Beyond  can  be  seen  the 
starry  sky,  the  lawn  and  the  fountain  in  the 
moonlight;  while,  left  alone  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  the  Child  continues  to  sleep  peacefully  in 
the  armchair.  A  pause. ~\ 

The  Stranger.  The  child  has  not  wakened !  [He 
also  goes  out.] 


THE  INTRUDER 


CHARACTERS 

THE  THREE  DAUGHTERS 
THE  GRANDFATHER 
THE  FATHER 
THE  UNCLE 
THE  SERVANT 

The  present  translation  of  The  Intruder,  the  fifth  of  M. 
Maeterlinck's  plays  to  appear  in  the  present  series,  is  the 
anonymous  version  published  by  Mr.  HEINEMANN  in  1892,  the 
editor  having,  however,  made  some  slight  alterations  in  order 
to  bring  it  into  conformity  with  the  current  French  text.  The 
particular  edition  used  for  this  purpose  was  the  1911  (twenty- 
third)  reprint  of  Vol.  I.  of  M.  Maeterlinck's  Theatre. 

A.  L.  G. 


THE  INTRUDER 


\_A  dimly  lighted  room  in  an  old  country-house.  A 
door  on  the  right,  a  door  on  the  left,  and  a  small 
concealed  door  in  a  corner.  At  the  back, 
stained-glass  windows,  in  which  the  colour  green 
predominates,  and  a  glass  door  opening  on  to 
a  terrace.  A  Dutch  clock  in  one  corner.  A 
lamp  lighted.] 

The  Three  Daughters.    Come  here,  grandfather. 

Sit  down  under  the  lamp. 
The  Grandfather.     There  does  not  seem  to  me 

to  be  much  light  here. 
The  Father.     Shall  we  go  on  to  the  terrace,  or 

stay  in  this  room? 
The  Uncle.    Would  it  not  be  better  to  stay  here? 

It  has  rained  the  whole  week,  and  the  nights 

are  damp  and  cold. 

The  Eldest  Daughter.    Still  the  stars  are  shining. 
The  Uncle.    Ah!  stars — that's  nothing. 
The  Grandfather.    We  had  better  stay  here.    One 

never  knows  what  may  happen. 
The  Father.     There  is  no  longer  any  cause  for 

anxiety.    The  danger  is  past,  and  she  is  saved 


232  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Grandfather.  I  fancy  she  is  not  going  on 
well  .  .  . 

The  Father.    Why  do  you  say  that? 

The  Grandfather.     I  have  heard  her  speak. 

The  Father.  But  the  doctors  assure  us  we  may  be 
easy  .  .  . 

The  Uncle.  You  know  quite  well  that  your  father- 
in-law  likes  to  alarm  us  needlessly. 

The  Grandfather.  I  don't  look  at  these  things  as 
you  others  do. 

The  Uncle.  You  ought  to  rely  on  us,  then,  who 
can  see.  She  looked  very  well  this  afternoon. 
She  is  sleeping  quietly  now;  and  we  are  not 
going  to  spoil,  without  any  reason,  the  first  com- 
fortable evening  that  luck  has  thrown  in  our 
way  ...  It  seems  to  me  we  have  a  perfect 
right  to  be  easy,  and  even  to  laugh  a  little, 
this  evening,  without  apprehension. 

The  Father.  That's  true;  this  is  the  first  time  I 
have  felt  at  home  with  my  family  since  this 
terrible  confinement. 

The  Uncle.  When  once  illness  has  come  into  a 
house,  it  is  as  though  a  stranger  had  forced  him- 
self into  the  family  circle. 

The  Father.  And  then  you  understood,  too,  that 
you  should  count  on  no  one  outside  the  family. 

The  Uncle.    You  are  quite  right. 

The  Grandfather.  Why  could  I  not  see  my  poor 
daughter  to-day? 

The  Uncle.  You  know  quite  well — the  doctor  for- 
bade it. 


THE  INTRUDER  233 

The  Grandfather.     I  do  not  know  what  to  think 

The  Uncle.     It  is  absurd  to  worry. 

The  Grandfather   [pointing  to  the  door  on  the 

left~\.    She  cannot  hear  us? 
The  Father.    We  shall  not  talk  too  loud;  besides, 

the  door  is  very  thick,  and  the  Sister  of  Mercy 

is  with  her,  and  she  is  sure  to  warn  us  if  we 

are  making  too  much  noise. 
The  Grandfather   [pointing  to  the  door  on  the 

right~\ .    He  cannot  hear  us  ? 
The  Father.     No,  no. 
The  Grandfather.    He  is  asleep? 
The  Father.     I  suppose  so. 
The  Grandfather.     Some  one  had  better  go  and 

see. 
The  Uncle.    The  little  one  would  cause  me  more 

anxiety  than  your  wife.    It  is  now  several  weeks 

since  he  was  born,  and  he  has  scarcely  stirred. 

He  has  not  cried  once  all  the  time !     He  is  like 

a  wax  doll. 
The  Grandfather.    I  think  he  will  be  deaf — dumb 

too,  perhaps — the  usual  result  of  a  marriage  be- 
tween cousins  .   .   .    [A  reproving  silence. ] 
The  Father.     I  could  almost  wish  him  ill  for  the 

suffering  he  has  caused  his  mother. 
The  Uncle.     Do  be  reasonable;  it  is  not  the  poor 

little  thing's  fault.     He  is  quite  alone  in  the 

room? 
The  Father.     Yes;  the  doctor  does  not  wish  him 

to  stay  in  his  mother's  room  any  longer. 


234  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Uncle.    But  the  nurse  is  with  him  ? 

The  Father.     No;  she  has  gone  to  rest  a  little; 

she  has  well  deserved  it  these  last  few  days. 

Ursula,  just  go  and  see  if  he  is  asleep. 
The  Eldest  Daughter.    Yes,  father.     [  The  Three 

Sisters  get  up,  and  go  into  the  room  on  the  right, 

hand  in  handJ\ 

The  Father.    When  will  your  sister  come? 
The  Uncle.    I  think  she  will  come  about  nine. 
The  Father.     It  is  past  nine.     I  hope  she  will 

come  this  evening,  my  wife  is  so  anxious  to  see 

her. 
The  Uncle.    She  is  certain  to  come.    This  will  be 

the  first  time  she  has  been  here? 
The  Father.    She  has  never  been  into  the  house. 
The  Uncle.     It  is  very  difficult  for  her  to  leave 

her  convent. 

The  Father.    Will  she  be  alone  ? 
The  Uncle.     I  expect  one  of  the  nuns  will  come 

with  her.     They  are  not  allowed  to  go  out 

alone. 

The  Father.    But  she  is  the  Superior. 
The  Uncle.    The  rule  is  the  same  for  all. 
The  Grandfather.     Do  you  not  feel  anxious? 
The  Uncle.    Why  should  we  feel  anxious?  What's 

the  good  of  harping  on  that?    There  is  nothing 

more  to  fear. 

The  Grandfather.    Your  sister  is  older  than  you? 
The  Uncle.    She  is  the  eldest  of  us  all. 
The  Grandfather.     I  do  not  know  what  ails  me; 

I  feel  uneasy.     I  wish  your  sister  were  here. 


THE  INTRUDER  235 

The  Uncle.    She  will  come;  she  promised  to. 

The  Grandfather.  I  wish  this  evening  were  over ! 
\The  Three  Daughters  come  in  again.~\ 

The  Father.     He  is  asleep? 

The  Eldest  Daughter.    Yes,  father;  very  sound. 

The  Uncle.  What  shall  we  do  while  we  are  wait- 
ing? 

The  Grandfather.    Waiting  for  what? 

The  Uncle.    Waiting  for  our  sister. 

The  Father.    You  see  nothing  coming,  Ursula? 

The  Eldest  Daughter  \_at  the  window].  Nothing, 
father. 

The  Father.  Not  in  the  avenue?  Can  you  see 
the  avenue? 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  father;  it  is  moonlight,  and 
I  can  see  the  avenue  as  far  as  the  cypress  wood. 

The  Grandfather.    And  you  do  not  see  any  one? 

The  Daughter.    No  one,  grandfather. 

The  Uncle.    What  sort  of  a  night  is  it? 

The  Daughter.  Very  fine.  Do  you  hear  the 
nightingales? 

The  Uncle.    Yes,  yes. 

The  Daughter.  A  little  wind  is  rising  in  the  ave- 
nue. 

The  Grandfather.    A  little  wind  in  the  avenue? 

The  Daughter.  Yes;  the  trees  are  trembling  a 
little. 

The  Uncle.  I  am  surprised  that  my  sister  is  not 
here  yet. 

The  Grandfather.  I  cannot  hear  the  nightingales 
any  longer. 


236  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Daughter.  I  think  some  one  has  come  into 
the  garden,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.    Who  is  it? 

The  Daughter.    I  do  not  know;  I  can  see  no  one. 

The  Uncle.     Because  there  is  no  one  there. 

The  Daughter.  There  must  be  some  one  in  the 
garden;  the  nightingales  have  suddenly  ceased 
singing. 

The  Grandfather.  But  I  do  not  hear  any  one 
coming. 

The  Daughter.  Some  one  must  be  passing  by  the 
pond,  because  the  swans  are  scared. 

Another  Daughter.  All  the  fishes  in  the  pond  are 
diving  suddenly. 

The  Father.    You  cannot  see  any  one? 

The  Daughter.    No  one,  father. 

The  Father.  But  the  pond  lies  in  the  moon- 
light .  .  . 

The  Daughter.  Yes;  I  can  see  that  the  swans 
are  scared. 

The  Uncle.  I  am  sure  it  is  my  sister  who  is  scar- 
ing them.  She  must  have  come  in  by  the  little 
gate. 

The  Father.  I  cannot  understand  why  the  dogs 
do  not  bark. 

The  Daughter.  I  can  see  the  watch-dog  right  at 
the  back  of  his  kennel.  The  swans  are  cross- 
ing to  the  other  bank !  .  .  . 

The  Uncle.  They  are  afraid  of  my  sister.  I  will 
go  and  see.  [He  calls.]  Sister!  sister!  Is 
that  you?  .  .  .  There  is  no  one  there. 


THE  INTRUDER  237 

The  Daughter.  I  am  sure  that  some  one  has  come 
into  the  garden.  You  will  see. 

The  Uncle.    But  she  would  answer  me ! 

The  Grandfather.  Are  not  the  nightingales  be- 
ginning to  sing  again,  Ursula? 

The  Daughter.     I  cannot  hear  one  anywhere. 

The  Grandfather.    And  yet  there  is  no  noise. 

The  Father.    There  is  a  silence  of  the  grave. 

The  Grandfather.  It  must  be  some  stranger  that 
scares  them,  for  if  it  were  one  of  the  family 
they  would  not  be  silent. 

The  Uncle.  How  much  longer  are  you  going  to 
discuss  these  nightingales? 

The  Grandfather.  Are  all  the  windows  open, 
Ursula  ? 

The  Daughter.  The  glass  door  is  open,  grand- 
father. 

The  Grandfather.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  cold 
is  penetrating  into  the  room. 

The  Daughter.  There  is  a  little  wind  in  the  gar- 
den, grandfather,  and  the  rose-leaves  are  fall- 
ing. 

The  Father.     Well,  shut  the  door.     It  is  late. 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  father  ...  I  cannot  shut 
the  door. 

The  Two  Other  Daughters.  We  cannot  shut  the 
door. 

The  Grandfather.  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with 
the  door,  my  children? 

The  Uncle.  You  need  not  say  that  in  such  an 
extraordinary  voice.  I  will  go  and  help  them. 


23 8  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  We  cannot  manage  to  shut 
it  quite. 

The  Uncle.  It  is  because  of  the  damp.  Let  us  all 
push  together.  There  must  be  something  in 
the  way. 

The  Father.  The  carpenter  will  set  it  right  to- 
morrow. 

The  Grandfather.  Is  the  carpenter  coming  to- 
morrow? 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  grandfather;  he  is  coming 
to  do  some  work  in  the  cellar. 

The  Grandfather.  He  will  make  a  noise  in  the 
house. 

The  Daughter.  I  will  tell  him  to  work  quietly. 
[Suddenly  the  sound  of  a  scythe  being  sharp- 
ened is  heard  out  side. ~\ 

The  Grandfather  [with  a  shudder"].    Oh! 

The  Uncle.    What  is  that? 

The  Daughter.  I  don't  quite  know;  I  think  it 
is  the  gardener.  I  cannot  quite  see;  he  is  in 
the  shadow  of  the  house. 

The  Father.     It  is  the  gardener  going  to  mow. 

The  Uncle.    He  mows  by  night? 

The  Father.  Is  not  to-morrow  Sunday? — Yes. — < 
I  noticed  that  the  grass  was  very  long  round  the 
house. 

The  Grandfather.  It  seems  to  me  that  his  scythe 
makes  as  much  noise  .  .  . 

The  Daughter.    He  is  mowing  near  the  house. 

The  Grandfather.    Can  you  see  him,  Ursula? 


THE  INTRUDER  239 

The  Daughter.    No,  grandfather.    He  stands  in 

the  dark. 
The  Grandfather.    I  am  afraid  he  will  wake  my 

daughter. 

The  Uncle.    We  can  scarcely  hear  him. 
The  Grandfather.    It  sounds  to  me  as  if  he  were 

mowing  inside  the  house. 
The  Uncle.    The  invalid  will  not  hear  it;  there  is 

no  danger. 
The  Father.    It  seems  to  me  that  the  lamp  is  not 

burning  well  this  evening. 
The  Uncle.  It  wants  filling. 
The  Father.  I  saw  it  filled  this  morning.  It 

has  burnt  badly  since  the  window  was  shut. 
The  Uncle.    I  fancy  the  chimney  is  dirty. 
The  Father.     It  will  burn  better  presently. 
The  Daughter.     Grandfather  is  asleep.     He  has 

not  slept  for  three  nights. 
The  Father.    He  has  been  so  much  worried. 
The  Uncle.     He  always  worries  too  much.     At 

times  he  will  not  listen  to  reason. 
The  Father.    It  is  quite  excusable  at  his  age. 
The  Uncle.    God  knows  what  we  shall  be  like  at 

his  age ! 

The  Father.    He  is  nearly  eighty. 
The  Uncle.    Then  he  has  a  right  to  be  strange. 
The  Father.    He  is  like  all  blind  people. 
The  Uncle.    They  think  too  much. 
The  Father.    They  have  too  much  time  to  spare. 
The  Uncle.    They  have  nothing  else  to  do. 


24o  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Father.  And,  besides,  they  have  no  distrac- 
tions. 

The  Uncle.    That  must  be  terrible. 

The  Father.     Apparently  one  gets  used  to  it. 

The  Uncle.-    I  cannot  imagine  it. 

The  Father.    They  are  certainly  to  be  pitied. 

The  Uncle.  Not  to  know  where  one  is,  not  to 
know  where  one  has  come  from,  not  to  know 
whither  one  is  going,  not  to  be  able  to  distin- 
guish midday  from  midnight,  or  summer  from 
winter — and  always  darkness,  darkness !  I 
would  rather  not  live.  Is  it  absolutely  incur- 
able? 

The  Father.    Apparently  so. 

The  Uncle.     But  he  is  not  absolutely  blind? 

The  Father.    He  can  perceive  a  strong  light. 

The  Uncle.    Let  us  take  care  of  our  poor  eyes. 

The  Father.    He  often  has  strange  ideas. 

The  Uncle.    At  times  he  is  not  at  all  amusing. 

The  Father.  He  says  absolutely  everything  he 
thinks. 

The  Uncle.     But  he  was  not  always  like  this? 

The  Father.  No;  once  he  was  as  rational  as  we 
are;  he  never  said  anything  extraordinary.  I 
am  afraid  Ursula  encourages  him  a  little  too 
much;  she  answers  all  his  questions  .  .  . 

The  Uncle.  It  would  be  better  not  to  answer 
them.  It's  a  mistaken  kindness  to  him.  \_Ten 
o'clock  strikes.] 

Grandfather  \_ivaking  up].   Am  I  facing  the 
glass  door? 


THE  INTRUDER  241 

The  Daughter.  You  have  had  a  nice  sleep,  grand- 
father? 

The  Grandfather.     Am  I  facing  the  glass  door? 

The  Daughter.    Yes,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.  There  is  nobody  at  the  glass 
door? 

The  Daughter.  No,  grandfather;  I  do  not  see 
any  one. 

The  Grandfather.  I  thought  some  one  was  wait- 
ing. No  one  has  come? 

The  Daughter.    No  one,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather  [/o  the  Uncle  and  Father].  And 
your  sister  has  not  come? 

The  Uncle.  It  is  too  late;  she  will  not  come  now. 
It  is  not  nice  of  her. 

The  Father.  I'm  beginning  to  be  anxious  about 
her.  \_A  noise,  as  of  some  one  coming  into 
the  house.~\ 

The  Uncle.     She  is  here!     Did  you  hear? 

The  Father.  Yes;  some  one  has  come  in  at  the 
basement. 

The  Uncle.  It  must  be  our  sister.  I  recognized 
her  step. 

The  Grandfather.    I  heard  slow  footsteps. 

The  Father.     She  came  in  very  quietly. 

The  Uncle.     She  knows  there  is  an  invalid. 

The  Grandfather.    I  hear  nothing  now. 

The  Uncle.  She  will  come  up  directly;  they  will 
tell  her  we  are  here. 

The  Father.    I  am  glad  she  has  come. 


242  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Uncle.  I  was  sure  she  would  come  this 
evening. 

The  Grandfather.  She  is  a  very  long  time  coming 
up. 

The  Uncle.    However,  it  must  be  she. 

The  Father.  We  are  not  expecting  any  other  vis- 
itors. 

The  Grandfather.  I  cannot  hear  any  noise  in  the 
basement. 

The  Father.  I  will  call  the  servant.  We  shall 
know  how  things  stand.  \He  pulls  a  bell-rope.~\ 

The  Grandfather.  I  can  hear  a  noise  on  the 
stairs  already. 

The  Father.     It  is  the  servant  coming  up. 

The  Grandfather.  It  sounds  to  me  as  if  she  were 
not  alone. 

The  Father.     She  is  coming  up  slowly  .  .  . 

The  Grandfather.    I  hear  your  sister's  step ! 

The  Father.     I  can  only  hear  the  servant. 

The  Grandfather.  It  is  your  sister!  It  is  your 
sister!  [ There  is  a  knock  at  the  little  door.~\ 

The  Uncle.  She  is  knocking  at  the  door  of  the 
back  stairs. 

The  Father.  I  will  go  and  open  it  myself.  [He 
partly  opens  the  little  door;  the  Servant  remains 
outside  in  the  opening.'}  Where  are  you? 

The  Servant.    Here,  sir. 

The  Grandfather.    Your  sister  is  at  the  door? 

The  Uncle.     I  can  only  see  th^  servant. 

The  Father.  It  is  only  the  servant.  [To  the  Ser- 
vant.} Who  was  that,  that  came  into  the  house? 


THE  INTRUDER  243 

The  Servant.    Came  into  the  house? 

The  Father.    Yes ;  some  one  came  in  just  now? 

The  Servant.     No  one  came  in,  sir. 

The  Grandfather.    Who  is  it  sighing  like  that? 

The  Uncle.    It  is  the  servant;  she  is  out  of  breath. 

The  Grandfather.    Is  she  crying? 

The  Uncle.     No;  why  should  she  be  crying? 

The  Father  [to  the  Servant].     No  one  came  in 

just  now? 

The  Servant.     No,  sir. 
The  Father.     But  we  heard  some  one  open  the 

door! 

The  Servant.    It  was  I  shutting  the  door. 
The  Father.     It  was  open? 
The  Servant.    Yes,  sir. 
The  Father.     Why  was  it  open  at  this  time  of 

night  ? 
The  Servant.    I  do  not  know,  sir.     I  had  shut  it 

myself. 

The  Father.    Then  who  was  it  that  opened  it? 
The  Servant.    I  do  not  know,  sir.    Some  one  must 

have  gone  out  after  me,  sir  ... 
The  Father.    You  must  be  careful. — Don't  push 

the  door;  you  know  what  a  noise  it  makes! 
The  Servant.     But,  sir,  I  am  not  touching  the 

door. 
The  Father.     But  you  are.     You  are  pushing  as 

if  you  were  trying  to  get  into  the  room. 
The  Servant.     But,  sir,  I  am  three  yards  away 

from  the  door. 
The  Father.    Don't  talk  so  loud  . 


244  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Grandfather.    Are  they  putting  out  the  light? 

The  Eldest  Daughter.    No,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.     It  seems  to  me  it  has  grown 

pitch   dark  all  at   once. 
The  Father  [to  the  Servant].    You  can  go  down 

again  now;  but  do  not  make  so  much  noise  on 

the  stairs. 
The  Servant.     I  did  not  make  any  noise  on  the 

stairs. 
The  Father.    I  tell  you  that  you  did  make  a  noise. 

Go  down  quietly;  you  will  wake  your  mistress. 

And  if  any  one  comes  now,  say  that  we  are  not 

at  home. 

The  Uncle.    Yes ;  say  that  we  are  not  at  home. 
The  Grandfather   [shuddering].     You  must  not 

say  that! 
The  Father.     .  .  .  Except  to  my  sister  and  the 

doctor. 

The  Uncle.    When  will  the  doctor  come? 
The  Father.    He  will  not  be  able  to  come  before 

midnight.      [He  shuts  the  door.     A   clock  is 

heard  striking  eleven  J\ 
The  Grandfather.     She  has  come  in? 
The  Father.    Who? 
The  Grandfather.    The  servant. 
The  Father.    No,  she  has  gone  downstairs. 
The  Grandfather.     I  thought  that  she  was  sitting 

at  the  table. 

The  Uncle.     The  servant? 
The  Grandfather.     Yes. 


THE  INTRUDER  245 

The  Uncle.  That  would  complete  one's  happi- 
ness! 

The  Grandfather.  No  one  has  come  into  the 
room? 

The  Father.    No;  no  one  has  come  in. 

The  Grandfather.    And  your  sister  is  not  here  ? 

The  Uncle.    Our  sister  has  not  come. 

The  Grandfather.    You  want  to  deceive  me. 

The  Uncle.     Deceive  you? 

The  Grandfather.  Ursula,  tell  me  the  truth,  for 
the  love  of  God! 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  Grandfather!  Grand- 
father! what  is  the  matter  with  you? 

The  Grandfather.  Something  has  happened!  I 
am  sure  my  daughter  is  worse!  .  .  . 

The  Uncle.     Are  you  dreaming? 

The  Grandfather.  You  do  not  want  to  tell  me! 
...  I  can  see  quite  well  there  is  something  .  .  t 

The  Uncle.  In  that  case  you  can  see  better  than 
we  can. 

The  Grandfather.     Ursula,  tell  me  the  truth ! 

The  Daughter.  But  we  have  told  you  the  truth, 
grandfather ! 

The  Grandfather.  You  do  not  speak  in  your  ordi- 
nary voice. 

The  Father.    That  is  because  you  frighten  her. 

The  Grandfather.     Your  voice  is  changed  too. 

The  Father.  You  are  going  mad!  \He  and  the 
Uncle  make  signs  to  each  other  to  signify  the 
Grandfather  has  lost  his  reason.] 


246  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Grandfather.    I  can  hear  quite  well  that  you 

are  afraid. 

The  Father.    But  what  should  we  be  afraid  of? 
The  Grandfather.    Why  do  you  want  to  deceive 

me? 

The  Uncle.    Who  is  thinking  of  deceiving  you? 
The  Grandfather.     Why  have  you  put  out  the 

light? 
The  Uncle.     But  the  light  has  not  been  put  out; 

there  is  as  much  light  as  there  was  before. 
The  Daughter.     It  seems  to  me  that  the  lamp 

has  gone  down. 

The  Father.     I  see  as  well  now  as  ever. 
The  Grandfather.    I  have  millstones  on  my  eyes ! 

Tell  me,  girls,  what  is  going  on  here  I    Tell  me, 

for  the  love  of  God,  you  who  can  see !     I  am 

here,  all  alone,  in  darkness  without  end!     I  do 

not  know  who  seats  himself  beside  me!     I  do 

not  know  what  is  happening  a  yard  from  me ! 

.  .  .  Why  were  you  talking  under  your  breath 

just  now? 

The  Father.    No  one  was  talking  under  his  breath. 
The  Grandfather.    You  did  talk  in  a  low  voice  at 

the  door. 

The  Father.    You  heard  all  I  said. 
The  Grandfather.    You  brought  some  one  into  the 

room!  .  .  . 

The  Father.     But  I  tell  you  no  one  has  come  in ! 
The  Grandfather.    Is  it  your  sister  or  a  priest? — 

You  should  not  try  to  deceive  me. — Ursula,  who 

was  it  that  came  in? 


THE  INTRUDER  247 

The  Daughter.    No  one,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.     You  must  not  try  to  deceive 

me ;  I  know  what  I  know. — How  many  of  us  are 

there  here? 
The  Daughter.     There  are  six  of  us  round  the 

table,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.    You  are  all  round  the  table? 
The  Daughter.    Yes,  grandfather. 
The  Grandfather.     You  are  there,  Paul? 
The  Father.     Yes. 

The  Grandfather.    You  are  there,  Oliver? 
The  Uncle.    Yes,  of  course  I  am  here,  in  my  usual 

place.    That's  not  alarming,  is  it? 
The  Grandfather.     You  are  there,  Genevieve? 
One  of  the  Daughters.    Yes,  grandfather. 
The  Grandfather.     You  are  there,  Gertrude? 
Another  Daughter.     Yes,  grandfather. 
The  Grandfather.    You  are  here,  Ursula? 
The  Eldest  Daughter.    Yes,  grandfather;  next  to 

you. 

The  Grandfather.    And  who  is  that  sitting  there? 
The  Daughter.      Where    do   you   mean,    grand- 
father?— There  is  no  one. 
The  Grandfather.    There,  there — in  the  midst  of 

us! 

The  Daughter.    But  there  is  no  one,  grandfather ! 
The  Father.    We  tell  you  there  is  no  one ! 
The  Grandfather.     But  you  cannot  see — any  of 

you! 
The  Uncle.    Pshaw!    You  are  joking? 


248  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Grandfather.  I  do  not  feel  inclined  for  jok- 
ing, I  can  assure  you. 

The  Uncle.     Then  believe  those  who  can  see. 

The  Grandfather  [undecidedly].  I  thought  there 
was  some  one  ...  I  believe  I  shall  not  live 
long  .  .  . 

The  Uncle.  Why  should  we  deceive  you?  What 
use  would  there  be  in  that? 

The  Father.  It  would  be  our  duty  to  tell  you 
the  truth  .  .  . 

The  Uncle.  What  would  be  the  good  of  deceiv- 
ing each  other? 

The  Father.    You  could  not  live  in  error  long. 

The  Grandfather  [trying  to  rise].  I  should  like 
to  pierce  this  darkness !  .  .  . 

The  Father.    Where  do  you  want  to  go? 

The  Grandfather.    Over  there  .   .  . 

The  Father.     Don't  be  so  anxious  .   .  . 

The  Uncle.     You  are  strange  this  evening. 

The  Grandfather.  It  is  all  of  you  who  seem  to 
me  to  be  strange ! 

The  Father.     Do  you  want  anything?  .   .  . 

The  Grandfather.    I  do  not  know  what  ails  me. 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  Grandfather!  grandfa- 
ther! What  do  you  want,  grandfather? 

The  Grandfather.  Give  me  your  little  hands,  my 
children. 

The  Three  Daughters.    Yes,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.  Why  are  you  all  three  trem- 
bling, girls? 


THE  INTRUDER  249 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  We  are  scarcely  trembling 
at  all,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.    I  fancy  you  are  all  three  pale. 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  It  is  late,  grandfather,  and 
we  are  tired. 

The  Father.  You  must  go  to  bed,  and  grand- 
father himself  would  do  well  to  take  a  little  rest. 

The  Grandfather.     I  could  not  sleep  to-night ! 

The  Uncle.     We  will  wait  for  the  doctor. 

The  Grandfather.     Prepare  me  for  the  truth. 

The  Uncle.     But  there  is  no  truth ! 

The  Grandfather.  Then  I  do  not  know  what 
there  is ! 

The  Uncle.     I  tell  you  there  is  nothing  at  all ! 

The  Grandfather.  I  wish  I  could  see  my  poor 
daughter! 

The  Father.  But  you  know  quite  well  it  is  impos- 
sible ;  she  must  not  be  awaked  unnecessarily. 

The  Uncle.    You  will  see  her  to-morrow. 

The  Grandfather.    There  is  no  sound  in  her  room. 

The  Uncle.  I  should  be  uneasy  if  I  heard  any 
sound. 

The  Grandfather.  It  is  a  very  long  time  since  I 
saw  my  daughter!  ...  I  took  her  hands  yes- 
terday evening,  but  I  could  not  see  her!  .  .  . 
I  do  not  know  what  has  become  of  her  ...  I 
do  not  know  how  she  is  ...  I  do  not  know 
what  her  face  is  like  now  .  .  .  She  must  have 
changed  these  weeks  !  .  .  .  I  felt  the  little  bones 
of  her  cheeks  under  my  hands  .  .  .  There  is 
nothing  but  the  darkness  between  her  and  me, 


250  THE  INTRUDER 

and  the  rest  of  you !  .  .  .  I  cannot  go  on  living 
like  this  .  .  .  this  is  not  living  .  .  .  You  sit  there, 
all  of  you,  looking  with  open  eyes  at  my  dead 
eyes,  and  not  one  of  you  has  pity  on  me !  .  .  . 
I  do  not  know  what  ails  me  .  .  .  No  one  tells 
me  what  ought  to  be  told  me  .  .  .  And  every- 
thing is  terrifying  when  one's  dreams  dwell 
upon  it  ...  But  why  are  you  not  speaking? 

The  Uncle.  What  should  we  say,  since  you  will 
not  believe  us? 

The  Grandfather.  You  are  afraid  of  betraying 
yourselves ! 

The  Father.    Come  now,  be  rational ! 

The  Grandfather.  You  have  been  hiding  some- 
thing from  me  for  a  long  time !  .  .  .  Something 
has  happened  in  the  house  .  .  .  But  I  am  be- 
ginning to  understand  now  .  .  .  You  have  been 
deceiving  me  too  long ! — You  fancy  that  I  shall 
never  know  anything? — There  are  moments 
when  I  am  less  blind  than  you,  you  know !  .  .  . 
Do  you  think  I  have  not  heard  you  whispering 
— for  days  and  days — as  if  you  were  in  the 
house  of  some  one  who  had  been  hanged — I 
dare  not  say  what  I  know  this  evening  .  .  . 
But  I  shall  know  the  truth!  ...  I  shall  wait 
for  you  to  tell  me  the  truth ;  but  I  have  known 
it  for  a  long  time,  in  spite  of  you ! — And  now, 
I  feel  that  you  are  all  paler  than  the  dead  I 

The  Three  Daughters.  Grandfather!  grandfa- 
ther! What  is  the  matter,  grandfather? 

The  Grandfather.     It  is  not  you  that  I  am  speak- 


THE  INTRUDER  251 

ing  of,  girls.  No ;  it  is  not  you  that  I  am  speak- 
ing of  ...  I  know  quite  well  you  would  tell 
me  the  truth — if  they  were  not  by!  ...  And 
besides,  I  feel  sure  that  they  are  deceiving  you 
as  well  .  .  .  You  will  see,  children — you  will 
see!  .  .  .  Do  not  I  hear  you  all  sobbing? 

The  Father.     Is  my  wife  really  so  ill? 

The  Grandfather.  It  is  no  good  trying  to  deceive 
me  any  longer;  it  is  too  late  now,  and  I  know 
the  truth  better  than  you !  .  .  . 

The  Uncle.    But  we  are  not  blind;  we  are  not. 

The  Father.  Would  you  like  to  go  into  your 
daughter's  room?  This  misunderstanding  must 
be  put  an  end  to. — Would  you  ? 

The  Grandfather  {becoming  suddenly  undecided^. 
No,  no,  not  now — not  yet. 

The  Uncle.    You  see,  you  are  not  reasonable. 

The  Grandfather.  One  never  knows  how  much 
a  man  has  been  unable  to  express  in  his  life! 
.  .  .  Who  made  that  noise? 

The  Eldest  Daughter.  It  is  the  lamp  flickering, 
grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  very  un- 
steady— very ! 

The  Daughter.  It  is  the  cold  wind  troubling 
it  ... 

The  Uncle.  There  is  no  cold  wind,  the  windows 
are  shut. 

The  Daughter.    I  think  it  is  going  out. 

The  Father.    There  is  no  more  oil. 

The  Daughter.     It  has  gone  right  out. 


252  THE  INTRUDER 

The  Father.    We  cannot  stay  like  this  in  the  dark. 
The  Uncle.     Why  not? — I  am  quite  accustomed 

to  it. 

The  Father.    There  is  a  light  in  my  wife's  room. 
The  Uncle.    We  will  take  it  from  there  presently, 

when  the  doctor  has  been. 
The  Father.    Well,  we  can  see  enough  here ;  there 

is  the  light  from  outside. 
The  Grandfather.    Is  it  light  outside? 
The  Father.     Lighter  than  here. 
The  Uncle.     For  my  part,  I  would  as  soon  talk 

in  the  dark. 

The  Father.    So  would  I.     [Silence.] 
The  Grandfather.    It  seems  to  me  the  clock  makes 

a  great  deal  of  noise  .  .  . 
The  Eldest  Daughter.    That  is  because  we  are  not 

talking  any  more,  grandfather. 
The  Grandfather.    But  why  are  you  all  silent? 
The  Uncle.    What  do  you  want  us  to  talk  about? 

— You  are  really  very  peculiar  to-night. 
The  Grandfather.    Is  it  very  dark  in  this  room? 
The  Uncle.    There  is  not  much  light.     [Silence.] 
The  Grandfather.     I  do  not  feel  well,  Ursula; 

open  the  window  a  little. 
The  Father.    Yes,  child;  open  the  window  a  little. 

I  begin  to  feel  the  want  of  air  myself.     [  The 

girl  opens  the  window.] 
The  Uncle.     I  really  believe  we  have  stayed  shut 

up  too  long. 

The  Grandfather.     Is  the  window  open? 
The  Daughter.    Yes,  grandfather;  it  is  wide  open. 


THE  INTRUDER  253 

The  Grandfather.  One  would  not  have  thought 
it  was  open;  there  was  not  a  sound  outside. 

The  Daughter.  No,  grandfather;  there  is  not 
the  slightest  sound. 

The  Father.    The  silence  is  extraordinary! 

The  Daughter.     One  could  hear  an  angel  tread! 

The  Uncle.    That  is  why  I  do  not  like  the  country. 

The  Grandfather.  I  wish  I  could  hear  some 
sound.  What  o'clock  is  it,  Ursula  ? 

The  Daughter.  It  will  soon  be  midnight,  grand- 
father. [Here  the  Uncle  begins  to  pace  up  and 
down  the  room.] 

The  Grandfather.  Who  is  that  walking  round  us 
like  that? 

The  Uncle.  Only  I !  only  I !  Do  not  be  fright- 
ened !  I  want  to  walk  about  a  little.  [Silence.  ] 
— But  I  am  going  to  sit  down  again; — I  cannot 
see  where  I  am  going.  [Silence.~\ 

The  Grandfather.  I  wish  I  were  out  of  this 
place! 

The  Daughter.  Where  would  you  like  to  go, 
grandfather? 

The  Grandfather.  I  do  not  know  where — into 
another  room,  no  matter  where !  no  matter 
where ! 

The  Father.    Where  could  we  go? 

The  Uncle.  It  is  too  late  to  go  anywhere  else. 
[Silence.  They  are  sitting,  motionless,  round 
the  table.  ] 

The  Grandfather.    What  is  that  I  hear,  Ursula  ? 

The  Daughter.     Nothing,  grandfather;  it  is  the 


254  THE  INTRUDER 

leaves  falling. — Yes,  it  is  the  leaves  falling  on 
the  terrace. 

The  Grandfather.  Go  and  shut  the  window,  Ur- 
sula. 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  grandfather.  [She  shuts 
the  window,  comes  back,  and  sits  down.] 

The  Grandfather.  I  am  cold.  [Silence.  The 
Three  Sisters  kiss  each  other.]  What  is  that  I 
hear  now? 

The  Father.  It  is  the  three  sisters  kissing  each 
other. 

The  Uncle.  It  seems  to  me  they  are  very  pale  this 
evening.  [Silence. ] 

The  Grandfather.  What  is  that  I  hear  now,  Ur- 
sula? 

The  Daughter.  Nothing,  grandfather;  it  is  the 
clasping  of  my  hands.  [Silence.] 

The  Grandfather.    And  that?  .  .  . 

The  Daughter.  I  do  not  know,  grandfather  .  .  . 
perhaps  my  sisters  are  trembling  a  little?  .  .  . 

The  Grandfather.  I  am  afraid,  too,  my  children. 
[Here  a  ray  of  moonlight  penetrates  through  a 
corner  of  the  stained  glass,  and  throws  strange 
gleams  here  and  there  in  the  room.  A  clock 
strikes  midnight;  at  the  last  stroke  there  is  a 
very  vague  sound,  as  of  some  one  rising  in 
haste.] 

The  Grandfather  [shuddering  with  peculiar  hor- 
ror]. Who  is  that  who  got  up? 

The  Uncle.    No  one  got  up ! 

The  Father.    I  did  not  get  up  1 


THE  INTRUDER  255 

The  Three  Daughters.  Nor  I! — Nor  I! — Nor 
I! 

The  Grandfather.  Some  one  got  up  from  the 
table  1 

The  Uncle.  Light  the  lamp !  .  .  .  [Cries  of  ter- 
ror are  suddenly  heard  from  the  child's  room, 
on  the  right;  these  cries  continue,  with  grada- 
tions of  horror,  until  the  end  of  the  scene.~\ 

The  Father.    Listen  to  the  child ! 

The  Uncle.    He  has  never  cried  before ! 

The  Father.    Let  us  go  and  see  him ! 

The  Uncle.  The  light!  The  light!  [At  this 
moment,  quick  and  heavy  steps  are  heard  in  the 
room  on  the  left. — Then  a  deathly  silence. — 
They  listen  in  mute  terror,  until  the  door  of  the 
room  opens  slowly,  the  light  from  it  is  cast  into 
the  room  where  they  are  sitting,  and  the  Sister 
of  Mercy  appears  on  the  threshold,  in  her  black 
garments,  and  bows  as  she  makes  the  sign  of 
the  cross,  to  announce  the  death  of  the  wife. 
They  understand,  and,  after  a  moment  of  hesi- 
tation and  fright,  silently  enter  the  chamber  of 
death,  while  the  Uncle  politely  steps  aside  on 
the  threshold  to  let  the  three  girls  pass.  The 
blind  man,  left  alone,  gets  up,  agitated,  and  feels 
his  way  round  the  table  in  the  darkness.] 

The  Grandfather.  Where  are  you  going? — 
Where  are  you  going? — The  girls  have  left  me 
all  alone ! 


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